


Play a Favorite Song

by linzeestyle



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Melancholy, Post-Series, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11297820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linzeestyle/pseuds/linzeestyle
Summary: Nobody wants to write that song, the break-up song. It's more about knowing what you want after that.Originally posted to Livejournal.  Written in 2012.





	1. Chapter 1

Adam gets a copy of "Girls in Movies" a week before its street date, in a small, brown-wrapped package to Adam's hotel in Las Vegas. The album arrives at the front desk forty minutes before Adam does; it, and he, have barely made it to his hotel room before his phone is ringing with Kris's number.

"Did you get it?" Kris sounds anxious, so damn much like a _kid_ it makes Adam's heart twist, a little. It's the first time he's heard Kris's voice -- the real one, not the recorded, top-40 radio version-- in at least a month, and he can't help the grin that stretches his face, even as he tosses down his duffel and shrugs out of his jacket.

"Wow, it's really good to hear you, too." Adam laughs, trailing packaging like confetti on the plush suite carpet. "Yes, I got it -- Jesus, how did you even get it here in the first place?"

"You don't want to know how much shipping cost," Kris chuckles, and Adam glances down at the CD in his hands, feeling the ache like a tangible thing. It's weird, holding the album, knowing Kris made it largely without his input. 

"I can't wait to hear it," says Adam, softly, and oh, how he means it.

"I'm really proud of it. It feels like me, you know? Not like--I mean, first albums are hard, but I guess with everything..." He trails off, pauses before he says anything else. "I wanted you to hear it first, though." 

Adam makes a soft sound, agreeing, turns the album over to look at the back. He recognizes the first single. "Years From Now" is a soft, sad thing, has already hit the Hot 100 and A/C top twenty. It's getting Kris compared to artists from Rob Thomas to Jason Mraz, but the first time Adam heard it - halfway between Reno and Las Vegas, on a radio station that cut out with the cloud coverings - all Adam could think was how _real_ it was. _I guess anyone can get it,_ Kris had said, then, in an interview with Michael Slezak, heel bouncing against the edge of his chair and fingers twisting aimlessly around his newly-bare left hand. _Nobody wants to write that song, the_ _break-up song. It's more about knowing what you want after that._ It had gutted Adam, and he'd turned the interview off before they'd even talked about the record, faded sense of not quite guilt making him shake his head, move on to the next link in his publicist's email. He'd meant to call Kris, then, but it had been so late and then with the his own tour ending... 

Adam sets the jewel case down, shakes his head to clear the memory. They've had so many missed connections -- lately, yeah, but even before, and Adam looks down at the album in his hands.

"Thank you."

Kris laughs. "What else would I do? Hey, I actually called for a reason. I've got some stuff in LA next week and I figured, since you're gonna be around--"

"You are a _stalker_ , Kris Allen!"

"Well that and we're kinda on the same management." Adam chuckles. "Seriously though, next week. I get in on Monday, I'll see you then, right?"

There's a firmness to Kris's voice, like it's not really a question -- and fuck, of course it isn't. Even if Adam did have plans, none of them would hold up next to the chance to see Kris again. It's been too long: almost a year, and God, it's crazy to think how much things have changed since then. Adam still remembers living with him, still forgets, when he's on tour, that Kris isn't the one in the bunk right below him.

"Of course, baby." It comes out low, voice thick with how much he means it.

On the other end of the phone line, Kris sounds happy, the genuine kind Adam hasn't heard in months. "I can't wait."

*

The Kris that Adam picks up at LAX on Thursday is thinner than Adam remembers, almost impossibly small, weighed down by his duffel and omnipresent guitar case. There's a five-o'clock crowd but Adam would be able to find him anywhere. He still looks out of place like he's never seen Los Angeles; his hair's too long and spiked awkward in the back, but he's wearing a shirt that Adam remembers from Idol, bought him during one of the early press junkets because Adam couldn't handle all of the plaid. _Seriously,_ _how has no one_ dressed _you, back home?,_ Adam remembers asking him, pointing him towards sizes that actually fit. Kris had been so new, then, all wide eyes and too-big clothing and no idea how beautiful he was.

Some things don't change, Adam thinks, brushing off the memory and pulling his eyes from Kris's hand. He feels guilty, but he's never seen Kris without it -- not in person, at any rate, not like this. It makes it real in a way all of the magazines and quiet phone calls never did, and the part of Adam's brain that still looks at Kris _that_ way sits up and takes notice. Adam could hate that part of his brain, right now.

And then Kris is smiling at him, and all Adam thinks is _oh my God, I missed you,_ all the time stretching out between them evaporating like it never existed at all. He says it out loud, and Kris throws himself at Adam, arms going tight around his waist and face buried in the fabric of Adam's t-shirt.

"Aw, man. You look..." Kris glances up, grins mischievously at Adam's now green-tinged shag cut, flopping in his eyes and grazing his shoulders. "Exactly the same."

"You look like someone else dressed you this morning," he teases back.

Kris huffs, pulling away to glance down at himself. "Freaking stylist. She packed for me, seriously. 'No, Kris, no more plaid.'" He wrinkles his nose and Adam is struck by the how badly he wants to _touch._ Kris is adorable, this way, unselfconscious and perfect. "C'mon, I'm not that bad."

"You are, in fact, that bad." Adam nods, somberly, then moves to grab Kris's duffel off the pavement, slings it across his shoulder and into the backseat of the car. "I wish you'd let me put you up, seriously, I feel like an awful host."

Kris laughs. "Jive's footing the bill. Besides, I know you -- no way you're getting up early enough to put up with my schedule."

It's not untrue, and Adam grins, slinging his arm over Kris's shoulders in a squeeze. Between tour rehearsals and radio promotion, Kris probably won't be spending much time in one place, anyway.

 _The whole rock deal,_ Kris had told him, on the phone; it's lead up to his first real arena tour, opening for OneRepublic over the next month. The venues are a far cry from the college junket, and Adam can't help but think, it's about fucking time.

"Okay, okay, point. Still, if you change your mind: mi casa es su casa." It's second nature to open the car door for Kris, but Kris has never been the type to get weirded out by the gesture: he climbs into the car, hopping up to get to the elevated chassis, and just smiles when Adam touches his lower back gently to guide him inside. "That's all the Spanish Alli can get in me," Adam clarifies, shutting the door and walking around to the driver's side. "She tries, but all the words have genders! Oh, please, that's the end of _that._ "

Kris tips his head back against the seat. "So this is what I've been missing." 

"That and so much more." Adam glances over at Kris. He looks tired, lines under his eyes the same ones Adam remembers from his own hectic album promotions. It's the same look they both had, once upon a time, in the days and weeks following American Idol, and Adam's hit with the same wave of irrational protectiveness he always is, like Kris has ever needed someone to look out for him. "So, food, first? I need to feed you, for real."

Kris laughs. "Oh jeez, yes."

*

There are photographers around Nobu. Not many, but a few, enough that lights flash as soon as Adam climbs out of his car. "Hang on," he says to Kris, and slides around to open the door for him -- another habit from an entirely other situation, but Kris just goes with it, lets Adam grab his hand and tug him out onto the sidewalk. "Oopsie-daisy," says Adam with a sheepish smile. "Gotta watch out for those cameras."

Kris laughs, but he's wide eyed, and Adam doesn't really blame him. It's easy for Adam now, he's gotten used to it: the cameras aren't as bad as they were right after Idol but he still shows up in magazines at least every couple of weeks, usually when he's on a date or getting his nails done or doing other things that fall under the heading of what Neil calls Hollywood's Adopt-a-Fag program. Like he isn't quite gay enough when he's just going into the studio alone. Following them to the door of the restaurant, one of the paps calls out Adam's name, tries to flag down Kris by yelling _Idol guy!_ Adam rolls his eyes and waves, calling, "After dinner, okay?!" and hoping they'll just go _away_.

"That was weird," Kris says, finally, inside and seated. He runs his hand through his hair, spiking it further. It makes him look impossibly young and absurdly innocent, and Adam is reminded all over again just how _cute_ Kris is.

"It's Hollywood, darling," says Adam in his best Tallulah Bankhead. "They're usually nice, I guess. I don't feel unsafe or anything like that." He makes a face. "I think they're hoping they'll catch me in high heels, waving a boa."

"Not your style?"

"I'm only a cliché when it suits me," says Adam, taking a sip of his drink. It's a fairly accurate description: Brad's, actually, said not long after Adam's first interview with Rolling Stone. _You're lucky that's true, or I'd hate you for that,_ Adam had told him at the time, mildly, over sugary drinks at a club in West Hollywood, and Brad had laughed and pulled the Twizzler straw from his cocktail.

 "As if. If it hasn't happened yet it ain't going to. First loves." And Adam had leaned back, thoughtful, because God but it was true.

Right now Kris looks the way Brad did that night, the way he always does. The same combination of fragile and impossible, boneless against the slick black booth, shoulder warm where it brushes Adam's because Kris has never had the straight-boy aversion to touching. He's using the thin straw that came with his drink to trap ice cubes against the bottom of the glass, watching the dark forms of patrons absently, guileless, like there's some part of him that never left the heartland. _It's_ _all_ _bigger in Texas,_ Brad still camps, eyes weighted with the memories he doesn't admit to keeping. Yellow roses, Adam thinks -- there's something that always stays with you.

He's got a thousand questions in his head: are you happy? Are you okay? Why are you here? Why now? Instead Adam knocks their shoulders together, whispers with mock conspiracy behind it. "So, craziest thing you've done lately."

Kris ducks his head. His face still scrunches up when he's really giggly, Adam notes, and it's like that re-centers him, assures him that he's still Kris. "No way," Kris gets out, looking up at Adam. "You go first."

 Adam always wins Truth or Dare. He puts his elbows on the table, using the excuse to lean closer. "I had sex with a girl."

Kris's laugh is so loud it makes one of the hostesses turn to look at them; Adam waves at her apologetically, finds himself laughing, too. "I did! With Alisan after one of her shows. We were a little stoned." More than a little, actually -- but Adam had spent the two weeks leading up to that talking about how he thought he could have made an 'excellent straight man,' and Alisan had flopped down across the couch, pushed his shoulder with her foot, told him to _put up or shut up, pretty boy._ It was pretty weird, Adam sure as hell won't be doing that again, but he loves that he did it, loves that he can say he had the experience.

 Loves the wide-eyed reaction from interviewers when he says it. They're so _afraid_ of his sexuality.

Leaning back against the booth again, Kris closes his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. "That rock star life'll get you." His smile is gentle, warm and familiar on his face.

"Mmm. So," Adam pokes his thigh. "Your turn." Kris cracks an eye open. "Really?"

"Rules are rules."

"Okay. Huh." Kris grabs his glass. "In Chicago a few months ago, I was at some after-party thing. It was right in the middle of everything, and I kinda... no, really, got just totally wasted." He ducks his head, huffing at his remembered behavior, and Adam reaches across the small space between them to rub the nape of his neck. Kris glances over at him, some combination of embarrassed and mischievous. "Made out with some dude."

If Adam had been drinking, just then, he would have choked. "You're kidding."

"I feel really weird about it, too, 'cause I don't think I got his name. But man." He shakes his head, like he's clearing a memory. "It was probably so bad."

 "Doubt it," Adam says before he can think better of it, and hides his own matching flush behind his hand. Because he can see it: Kris, giggly and clingy and friendly the way he gets when he's been drinking, sliding into a booth or maybe into someone's lap, making those little sounds Adam

used to hear sometimes on the tour bus, when Kris thought everyone else was asleep and the curtains were more soundproof than they were.

He needs details.

 "So, Kristopher. What's your type? What did he look like?" Adam is completely aware he's being an ass, but Kris has never been all that self-conscious and he wouldn't have shared if he wasn't okay talking. Adam scoots closer, leaning in conspiratorially. It takes him away from his drink, but some things are too good to pass up. "Let me guess - total jock, right?" Adam pictures blonde hair and muscles, someone who hulks over Kris and looks like they stepped out of an episode of _Friday Night Lights_.

Kris smirks. "Not even close."

 "Ooh, really?" Playful Kris is Adam's favorite Kris, and he always forgets what a _tease_ Kris can be. "Dish."

Kris rolls his eyes, but the blush is back, and he's looking at the ceiling instead of Adam when he says, "Ah, I don't know. He had black hair, I think he works for a label. Really tall, kinda..." Kris makes a gesture that could either mean 'lithe' or 'well hung'; Adam's assuming the former, for his own sanity. "Totally not a jock." Kris pauses, laughs self consciously. "Looked like you, sorta." Adam's eyes go wide despite himself, and Kris shakes his head. "Forget it."

Adam has no idea how he's supposed to do that. Still, he hums his agreement, reaches over to squeeze the back of Kris's neck in a gesture he hopes Kris will take at face value. The menus are both still at the center of the table and Adam slides one in front of Kris with an insistent, _you eat something_ ; Kris laughs, says, "Yeah, yeah," but he picks it up and lets Adam tell him what's good, wrinkles his nose when Adam suggests things he thinks are particularly "weird."

"Hollywood's a freaky place," Kris says when Adam describes the Bluefin Toro. He sounds genuinely overwhelmed and Adam grins, because Kris is sitting in a West Hollywood hot spot being photographed by nine cameras, having dinner with a big faggy Jew who wore bondage straps to the Grammys last year -- and it's the idea of eating fish eggs that has him freaked out.

"You would think _that_ was the crazy part," Adam says fondly, and Kris shrugs and lets himself list sideways, head heavy and familiar against Adam's side.

It's close to eleven when they leave the restaurant -- prime-time for paparazzi, at least in Hollywood, and Adam slides his sunglasses on against a sudden flash of cameras.

"All these boys, just for me?" Adam wiggles his fingers at the cameras.

Flash-bulbs go off; he's pretty sure he hears someone say something about Kris's presence but it's drowned out by other questions, about Adam's post-tour plans and if he's got a new boyfriend and stupid things, things Adam's pretty sure no one answers, but there's a car waiting for them at valet and Adam tries to stay polite, stares straight ahead with his arm around Kris's waist.

"Okay guys, come on, it's a late night for everybody."

It doesn't always work, but tonight, it seems to. Adam helps Kris into the passenger side of the car, turns and gives the cameras a tired wave. Slides into the drivers' seat, finally, and lets the last of the flashes slick down off the dark tinted windows when the door shuts, firm click and catch of a lock behind him.

"Jeez." Kris cranes his neck when the car starts up, watching the photogs recede into the car's exhaust fumes as Adam pulls into traffic.

"That's Hollywood, baby." Adam wraps an arm around him, merging into the fast lane. "Best reason ever to take a party home."

"Home," for the next week at least, is the Beverly Hills Hotel. "It's pink!" Adam announces when he hands his keys off to a valet, perhaps a little too loudly, then covers his mouth with an 'oops' that he doesn't actually mean. There's no sense in everyone expecting you to be flamboyant if you don't get to be that way, every now and then. "You sure they meant to send you here?"

"Nope, there's a Motel 6 down the street." Kris deadpans, then rolls his eyes. "Jive's not that cheap."

"And you're their new golden boy, that helps." They follow an attendant up to Kris's suite, a sprawling, expansive thing that goes out of its way to look as expensive as possible. It's huge, more room than someone Kris's size could ever need, and it manages to give Adam one of _those_ moments, where with his sunglasses on inside and lavish lifestyle around him he actually feels like he's living the 'rock star' life.

Kris whistles. "I think I'm outta my league here."

"Oh, please." Adam flops down on the bed with an exaggerated _oof_ , waving his hand until Kris comes over to join him. He sits down far more tentatively, but then that probably makes sense; he's had more to drink than Adam, and there's a good chance if he goes down, he might just stay there. "They'd better love you. Everybody loves you."

It's true: Kris is a hot topic, and it's about damn time. Post-Idol, it was Adam that exploded, Adam who got all the attention and limelight. Kris had been happy, glad to be left alone, but it had always frustrated Adam, how no one seemed willing to work any harder, see all that _talent_ being glossed over. Kris's first album went gold, did fine by Jive's standards, but "Girls in Movies" is set to release at number one, and "Years From Now" will go platinum by the end of this quarter. Kris is in town on PR, to finish working out a tour for which he got three separate offers. 

Everybody wants him now, and every so often Adam thinks, with a touch of pride, _I saw him first._

There's a minibar hiding under a marble counter divider, and Adam grabs out the Grey Goose and two crystal tumblers, because there's no sense in wasting Jive's goodwill. "Here," he says, filling one glass and handing it to Kris, still sunken into the bed like it's eaten him for good. "To you. It's about damn time they started treating you right."

Kris scoffs, says something about _it's_ _never been that bad,_ but he tilts his head back and takes down half the glass in one shot. Adam makes an impressed sound and reaches over to top him off. "Niiiiice."

Kris snorts. "Been practicing."

It's as good a time to bring it up as any, Adam supposes. He sits back down on the bed next to Kris, reaches out to trace the veins in Kris's hand.

"So. How are you," whispers Adam. "Really." Kris snorts and takes another drink.

"You gotta stop mom-ing me." he says, watching Adam's finger run over his knuckles. "M'cool. Totally awesome, even."

"I haven't seen you in a long time," says Adam, more quietly. "Not since you and Katy..." That makes Kris close his eyes, shoulders slumping. "Oh."

 _Oh._ For everything they talk about, they've never talked about _this_. Adam had tried, of course, called the day they'd made the separation public; Kris had answered on the fourth ring, said _I just...need some time,_ his voice dry and tight over the phone, and Adam had gotten that, understood the need to process. They've talked a dozen times since then, but never about anything that actually mattered -- Adam had told him about his own dates and hook-ups, about video treatments and songs for a third album, and Kris had talked about homecoming games, about recording in Nashville and Chicago in the fall. Lies, and little details, like everything was normal. Like Kris wasn't splitting his life up into memories and paperwork and cardboard boxes of 'before' and 'after.'

 "Yeah, 'oh.' And then you write that stupid song and you made me cry, bitch. So yes, I'm worried about you. Talk."

"There's nothing to talk about, really. Touring was hard, she was lonely and I was..." Kris shakes his head, like he's clearing a thought. "I'm doing okay. And besides, you'd know if I wasn't, right? Thought I was easy to read."

"You are an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in oh my God, that's a lot of plaid." He smiles. "I feel like I've missed so much. You're out there writing hit songs and getting all kinds of crazy songwriter things and kissing boys, what the hell?" It's the last one that Adam can't seem to shake. Kris said it like it was casual, like it wasn't contrary to everything Adam had always known about him. _He's 100% straight._ Adam doesn't believe that -- doesn't believe it about anyone, really, because Kinsey was a smart man and even Adam is only a five -- but he always thought Kris did, and it's that change that makes the difference.

Kris just shrugs, leaning heavy against Adam's side. "I'm full of surprises."

Adam isn't sure how to respond to that, and he doesn't, just takes a thoughtful sip of his drink and lets the quiet sit.

"She's the one that asked for it," says Kris, softly, after a while. "I wasn't surprised. It felt sort of... it was kind of a relief, jeez, I felt like a jerk. But I wasn't any good for her and it wasn't fair, I mean, she was holding down the fort and putting everything on hold and I wasn't, I loved her, man I _still_ love her, but..." Kris makes an expansive wave that ends in rubbing a hand down his face.

Adam squeezes his shoulders. "You weren't _in_ love anymore?"

Kris nods. He looks tired, suddenly, and Adam leans over to kiss the side of his head. "It happens. We change, and it doesn't mean anyone's a bad person." Which is easy enough to say, Adam knows, but it's nearly impossible to learn: Adam's stayed friends with almost all of his exes, but it kills him, at first, every single time.

"It's not that," says Kris. "The fame thing. I'm just a long way from home, I guess." He shrugs. "I'm hoping we can do the friends thing, eventually."

Adam shakes his head, unable to help himself from reaching over, running an affectionate hand over Kris's cheek. "I'm so sorry," he says quietly, because it's true and he's never really said it, before. Kris shakes his head a little, still leaning into the touch.

"You didn't do anything."

He sounds so _serious_ , the words nuzzled into Adam's palm, and Adam's back straightens, a twinge of odd, misplaced guilt making him intensely aware of Kris's physical closeness. He pulls his hand away.

"Okay, rock star. Bedtime for you."

"You're leaving?" Kris looks up at him, surprised.

"Busy morning -- and you too." Adam stands up and shuts off the television, grabs his keys off of the bar table. When he turns back around, Kris looks lost, mussed and too-small on the big hotel bed. "You're probably exhausted," he says, softer. "Give me a call tomorrow, okay? Let me know how it's going?"

There's a pause, like it takes Kris a minute to get the words through. Adam wants to touch, and it's not even sexual, really -- Kris's bangs are flopped over in his face and his eyelids are swollen and puffy with sleeplessness, and Adam wants to brush his hair back, run his thumbs over his cheekbones. His fingers twitch with it, and it's an old feeling, really: Adam's not used to not getting what he wants, and he's never gotten over just how _perfect_ Kris is.

Not his though. Might as well have DO NOT TOUCH written on his forehead. Adam steps forward and pulls him into a hug. "I'm not kidding. _Call me._ "

Kris nods into Adam's stomach, pulls back far enough to mumble something into Adam's skin. It's indistinct, and Adam replies with a _hmm_ , and Kris presses his forehead into Adam's ribcage and repeats himself.

"You shouldn't call when a boy wants you to. Cosmo says it makes you look easy." Adam laughs in disbelief. "Kristopher! You read Cosmo?"

"It's a brave new world out there." Kris exhales, still leaning heavily against Adam. "Good thing I'm easy. I'll call. I promise."

*

Outside the hotel, Adam spins his key ring on his index finger, considering before he changes his mind and calls a driver. He's not drunk, but he feels light-headed, foggy and nostalgic and years back from where he is. There are things you can't have, and that's okay -- Adam's a big kid, and he doesn't do a lot of pining. It never works out, and there's a world of difference between wanting someone for who they are, and wanting someone for who you want them to be.

Kris has only been single for four months. Experience teaches that, and Kris doesn't have any.

The car that pulls up is sleek and black, the inside slick leather and rock star style. Adam lies back, closes his eyes. It feels like being on tour, with the wheels rolling beneath him, and it's homey, familiar. He knows it well enough that he falls asleep on the drive, wakes up disoriented, thrown off by his own driveway. Over a year and it still feels weird, sometimes, looking up at the rich shadows of the Hollywood Hills and thinking _home_ , rather than _someday._ It's a surreal thought because he still feels like himself, still thinks like the same boy that came at this from the other side.

Inside his house, Adam texts his mom and grabs a Smart Water from the kitchen, leaves a trail of clothes strewn like breadcrumbs to his room. The cleaning service only comes on Mondays and Thursdays, and he's got laundry scattered across his bedroom in gender-fucked piles, stretchy Lycra and sparkling fabrics along leather and rivets, a pair of black patent combat boots with winking golden detailing. The covers are still turned down from the night before, and Adam flops

down onto the mattress with a gusty sigh, starfishing his body until there's no space on the bed that he hasn't claimed. "Oh, fuck me," he says to the silent bedroom, and then huffs at himself for talking out loud. "God, this is silly."

He falls asleep just like that, still unsure what _this_ is.

*

Adam doesn't have downtime very often. It's rare enough that he finds he's not sure what to do with it: boredom sets in fast, along with the antsy feeling that he's missing something somewhere. Fortunately for him, alcohol solves at least one of those problems, and after a meeting with 19 and a much-needed manicure he meets up with Alisan at a gay bar in WeHo, a weird little place near his former apartment. It's got purple lacquered tables and a disco ball shaped like a circus tent, and Adam's been coming here through thirteen years and about a dozen different styles. If he thinks about it, he imagines the latter probably explains why no one ever even blinks when he walks through the door: once you've seen someone go from chubby redhead to purple lipstick and glitter, a Rolling Stone cover or two loses its shock value.

"Dave swears he saw Zach Quinto in here last week," says Alisan when they're seated, gesturing towards the boy who just brought them their drinks.

"Huh. He should have gotten a picture. Or a date." There's a guy at the bar: pretty, slim, exactly Adam's type. His hair is loosely spiked and he's got stubble over his jaw; from a distance, in the dim light, he looks almost familiar. It's eerie, even for Adam, and Adam takes a drink of his cocktail and stays where he is.

"I feel like I'm watching the Discovery Channel," says Alisan, looking between Adam and the bar. "You gonna pounce?"

Adam shakes his head. "Too tired."

"Too tired for ass? I don't buy it."

Adam shrugs. He doesn't hook up with strangers anymore. Not that he did that often, before, but he's done his best to keep his personal life _out_ of the tabloids. It sucks, because so much of "famous" Hollywood is so _scared_ and closeted -- but Adam has good friends, even more acquaintances, and he's never been lacking for a quick fuck, when he wants it. "I got home so late. I hadn't seen Kris in forever."

"Oh, the Idol kid?" Alisan's face lights up with recognition. "I hear his album's gonna sell over a hundred thousand."

Adam can't hide the proud smile that stretches his face. "Isn't it amazing? He keeps playing it down, but it's silly. He's incredible." The boy at the counter laughs at something the bartender said, showing teeth. The smile's too starched, Adam thinks. His nose doesn't scrunch, he doesn't really mean it. He rolls his eyes at himself. 

"God, you're obvious. You're lucky it's cute." Alison laughs, shaking her head and sliding out of her side of the booth. "B-R-B," she spells out, and Adam watches her head down to the bar, waving for a drink. The bartender - a girl, Kacee, with blonde hair and a sleeve that makes him think, occasionally, of Megan - leans over the bar to get Alisan's order, and Adam gives up watching in favor of looking around. He doesn't get many opportunities to just _be_ , in LA: he's a star, or a sleaze, or tabloid gossip, or remember-when. It's the danger, he guesses, of having dabbled in most of West Hollywood's scenes at one point of his life or another, and Adam sometimes finds himself wondering what it's like for people who don't live in the eye of it.

Kris, he knows, won't move to LA for just that reason. Even after the divorce, in the days and weeks that followed, Kris stubbornly stayed in Conway. _It's_ _still_ _home,_ he told _People_ , right before his album dropped -- and Adam gets that, he does, because he figures it's like his own feelings on LA. It hurts you, but you wouldn't leave it. Everyone knows every mistake you've made, but the place gets into you like you couldn't breathe without it. It's funny, Adam thinks, how after all of that difference he and Kris finally have that sense of place in common. Being famous makes everywhere you go into a small town.

And then there's a familiar guitar coming down over the speakers, and Adam doesn't have time to think about it anymore. His eyes go wide, and he whips his head up to look over at the flat screen on the wall next to the bar: his own dark-lit profile looks back at him, and his hands come up to his face, embarrassed.

"Oh my _God,_ " he calls over at the bar, where Kacee and Alisan, the traitors, are giggling amongst themselves. "No. Fuck you, you turn that off right now."

"You're no fun, Lambert!," shouts Kacee back at him. "I like this song! It's Sirius anyway, we only get like, six options that aren't country." She complies, though, and when she hits a button the screens switch over to basic cable, some Leno rerun on NBC. It's not exactly classy, but Adam wouldn't like the place if it wasn't kind of a dive.

"Oh, hey, speaking of." Alisan gestures back towards the television. "Isn't that your boy?"

Adam blinks, twisting to look. Sure enough, it's Kris, and this must be a rerun from just a couple of weeks ago, because he's performing "Years From Now." It's a stripped-down version, and the sound is barely audible in the growing second-wind crowd, but Adam's seen this performance before, remembers watching it in a hotel because Alli texted him to tell him to _waatch our fuckin_ _bro, dude!!!!_ Remembers watching, blown away, at how small and vulnerable and absolutely _brilliant_ Kris had looked on that big stage, all guitar and white chucks and the piano and snare rounding out his soft strong voice, like he was playing to a quiet room and not a television studio for millions of home viewers.

Adam knows all the words, now, could sing the song by heart. He mouths along, _it_ _wasn't supposed to be this real, just tell me how you feel_ , watches the way Kris's face broadcasts every fucking emotion he's probably ever had. It makes it hard to watch, and Adam wonders if the audience feels it, if people sitting in their recliners also feel like the bottom of their chests dropped out when Kris's little world upended.

On the screen, the song ends, and a pre-recorded Kris rocks on the sides of his feet, staring down at Converse sneakers that glitter, just slightly. Adam has to grin at that, because he doesn't think he noticed it, last time.

Sitting back in the booth, now, Alisan's voice pulls him away from the screen. "I can see your boner for that kid from fucking _space_ , Lambert."

Adam's stomach drops out, but he still manages to brush it off with a dismissive wave. "Fuck you. I was promised booze, I believe."

"Depends -- are you buying, or am I shelling out for shots tonight?" Adam pulls out his wallet. "Man up, bitch."

Alisan laughs, and doesn't mention Kris again -- not until they leave together, anyway, Adam walking her the few blocks to her apartment even though they could have driven. It's a good night for it, palm-tree winter making Adam grateful for his city, surreal as it is. 

"You wanna crash here?" Alisan turns to look at him before she gets her door open, and Adam tucks his hands into the lizard-green pockets of Cassidy's newest creation, sees a flash of the jacket's oil-slick polish when he shrugs his arms out, smiles and says no. Alisan nods; it's still early (late) enough to justify a cab.

"Hey, I didn't mean to rag on you about Kris. It just threw me. I didn't think it was still like that."

Adam huffs. "It isn't! It's not! It was never 'like that,'" he says, making air quotes. "It's a crush. I'm allowed to get those, remember? I think everybody in America mentioned it once."

"You're a good actor and a shitty liar."

Adam sighs. "He's straight, Ali. I love him to death. But I'm not that guy, you know? Too damn old."

"Thirty -- you're ancient, babe," she says, reminding him with a familiar tease. "Just be careful, please? Sometimes I don't think you even know how easy you break."

There's no way to respond to that, really -- because Adam wants to argue, wants to tell her she's making too big of a deal out absolutely nothing, but he just can't seem to find the words to do it. Instead he steps forward, pulls her into a hug that smells like night and leather and glitter. "Thank you," he says into the top of her head, and she squeezes him harder.

It's after three AM when Adam gets home; he notes the time only because it feels too late for a phone call, and he's startled when his phone buzzes in his pocket. This late at night, Adam's come to expect drunk dials or panic; instead Kris's name flashes on his iPhone, and Adam hits receive.

"Shouldn't you be in bed? You know it's tomorrow in Arkansas, right?"

"It's tomorrow _here_." Kris's voice floats through the speaker, thick and slurred with sleeplessness. "Can't sleep, and I figured, who else do I know that's up right now?"

"Mmm." Adam chuckles, flopping down onto the rich black sofa in the center of his living room. Rolls onto his side so he can tuck the phone between the leather and his ear. "It's so nice that you thought of me," he croons, sarcasm-sweet, before remembering: "hey! I saw you on Leno tonight! Again."

"Yeah, so did I." Kris sounds embarrassed, the way he always gets when Adam mentions he's watched him, listened to his music or taken the time to hear a show. "I can't believe that's already a rerun, jeez. You'd think they'd get sick of it."

"You're incredible," says Adam, simply, because it's true.

"I bet you say that to all the guys." Adam shivers, flips over onto his back. On the other end of the line Kris laughs, softly. "This is stupid, but I missed you like crazy."

"I see you again tomorrow, remember?" Kris chuckles. "I know. Hippie food."

"LA experience!" Adam doesn't think of Urth as 'hippie food,' but he can imagine Kris anyway, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust.

"Yeah, yeah." There's a pause, and then Kris makes a frustrated noise. "That's not what I meant though. I'm just sorry, I guess. I didn't think it'd be a whole year." "Things get crazy. It happens."

"You know that wasn't it. It's not like I wasn't in the neighborhood." Half of Kris's album was recorded at the Swing House, in Hollywood; 19's offices are all in Los Angeles. Their schedules have never quite _matched_ , of course, but if Adam really considers it, the last year has been full of ignored and passed-by chances. "I just didn't want to get you involved."

Adam shifts on the sofa, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "Kris..."

"I didn't want you to get dragged into it and start thinking you'd done something. With me and Katy. When things got bad, I mean, before we were done, I think she kind of wondered--"

"--I never would have. _Ever._ "

Kris laughs. "Yeah, she knew that. It wasn't you that made her wonder."

Adam closes his eyes. Nothing Kris is saying is a surprise: Adam's known about Kris's crush on him for longer than Kris has. Still, there's always been amusement, along with everything else, like some part of Kris was laughing at himself for getting hung up like that. Adam doesn't hear any trace of that, now.

He must stay quiet for too long. "I should probably try that sleep thing," Kris says, breaking the silence Adam hadn't even realized he'd let stretch. "They want me down at the studio tomorrow for some acoustic thing."

It's sort of a cheap change in the subject, but it's late enough that Adam is willing to take it. "Radio? I'll listen."

"You're gonna wake up for a morning show?"

"Um. Maybe online later."

He can hear Kris huff, amused. "I could just sing it now."

"Lullaby on demand?"

"Free, one-time offer."

Adam should decline: Kris is obviously tired, raw-sleepless, and it's sort of terrible of Adam to want to see just how far he'll push this. But Adam hasn't made it to this point in his life without taking advantage of opportunities, and besides, they can only cause so much damage with a phone-line in between them. He slides down against the soft leather and closes his eyes, letting the sound of Kris's breathing regulate his own. "Sing me a song, Pocket Idol." 

"Years From Now" is softer, even prettier like this. Maybe just because Adam can picture Kris in a hotel somewhere, voice calm and quiet and just for him. Adam's eyes flutter closed again and he lets himself drift. His last thought before he falls asleep is, _he's_ _changed the song, a little._ The version on the record, that one talks about girls. 

_Right now you're very young, the world is at your feet. Pretty things are calling you, and they all sound so sweet._

*

The song is in his head when Adam wakes up, forty minutes too early and with the beginnings of a headache in the back of his brain. It stays with him while he showers, and he finds himself singing the chorus to the mirror, heavy, like it's the words somehow building the pressure between his eyes.

"You look beat," offers Kris when Adam shows up at Urth, fiddling with his key-chain absently as Kris orders. He looks worried when Adam asks for water, brushes off the food menu with a weak smile.

"You say the nicest things." Adam shakes his head, wincing when he remembers why that's a terrible idea. "Just a headache." Adam used to get them on the Idol tour, goaded on by the noise and the screams from the barricades, and Kris has more than a passing familiarity with Adam's medicine cabinet. "I think maybe I was out too late."

Kris glances up from the menu. "Oh?"

"Oh?" Adam mimics, mouth turning up into a smile. "I went out with Ali. Mine, not ours," he adds, as an afterthought. "It was fun, but I think maybe I should have left earlier. I got home right before you called me."

Kris shrugs. "I kinda figured. I just didn't know if maybe it was a date or something." It sounds casual, but there's a weight behind it, and Adam raises an eyebrow. "I'm not seeing anybody, if that's what you mean," he says, carefully. Not seriously, not since Drake, and he _knows_ Kris knows that. "There's no time," he adds, deliberately light. "You know that!"

Kris nods, looks at Adam thoughtfully. "Right, no. I'm sorry, that was weird." He glances back down at the menu. "Hey, if I order fries you'll eat those, right?"

Adam lets his eyes slip closed, wonders if Kris can see his relief. "I always do," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I'm going to get fat and it's going to be your fault."

"Fat and happy. It's how we do it at home."

"California, hon. We like our boys skinny and fucked."

"California has a type?"

Adam opens one eye and stares at Kris, whose smirking at him over the edge of the menu.

"Mmm-hmm. So get me some fries, Small Town Boy."

Adam's headache doesn't go away, but it fades enough that he can hear himself think. It helps, Adam supposes, to have Kris here with him. When they saw each other more often, on _Idol_ and in the months after the show had ended, Kris would tiptoe around Adam when he was sick, or stressed, did it until Adam caught him by the wrist, just outside of Atlanta, said _distract_ _me?_ and made room in his tiny bunk for Kris to hop up, too. Kris has all kinds of stories -- missionary work, or that fan in Glendale with a life-sized blow-up cactus -- and Adam could just listen, fade out, borrow someone else's spotlight, for once. In Missouri, the night there were protesters, Kris hadn't even said anything before he was scooting his way into the thin space of Adam's bunk, back pressed against the opposite wall from Adam and telling him about barbecue, and direct messaging, and how in elementary school, Kris thought the state was actually named 'misery.' Adam had fallen asleep with his toes tucked under Kris's thighs, and he still remembers it, now, because of how easy it was. How easy it is to fall back into that now, Kris telling him about fans, about radio shows and give-aways and going to Disneyworld with the _Idol_ winners. 

Adam pops a fry into his mouth and laughs at Kris's impression of Taylor, "it's an encore, you know, they do that on _Broadway_ ," hands sweeping in exaggeration over the table. "Have I mentioned lately I am so glad _you_ won? Because I am."

"Whatever, man, I hung out with Mickey." 

"I pictured you more of a Tinkerbell person. Waving pixie dust? We could get you up on a string."

"Does that make you Peter Pan, or Wendy?"

Adam wrinkles his nose in disdain. "Never again, tights. I got famous so I could wear pants and pants only."

Kris leans back in his chair, glancing under the table at Adam's slick-leather pants with something that looks a whole lot like skepticism. He doesn't say anything, though, and Adam smiles around his glass of water. It's so easy like this, like the best date he's ever had, and Adam could forget, if he let himself, slip into the fantasy. He doesn't, of course, but when Kris kicks him under the table and looks wide-eyed, fake innocent, it would be so, so damn easy to do so. That's part of the problem, Adam supposes -- maybe he's just out of practice. He hasn't seen Kris in a long time, after all. When the waiter clears their dishes, Adam excuses himself to the bathroom long enough to splash water on his face, caring more about the reality check than the way it fades his makeup, letting bare skin show through. _Forget it,_ he tells himself sternly, still trying to shake the remnants of Kris's song from his mind.

Adam's car is barely a block away from the restaurant; he means to say goodbye to Kris at the door, but it's easy, somehow, to wind up walking together, Adam's hands in his pockets against the not-too-cool air and the sudden desire to reach out and make contact.

"Thank you," Adam says softly, at the door of his car. Kris laughs. "You make it sound like a hassle. I told you, I miss you."

Adam's fingers close around the keys in his pocket, sifting the weight between his fingers and concentrating on that when he says, "I'm still just right here."

It doesn't seem to be the answer Kris is looking for, because he leans heavily against the side of the car, frowning. "I know, man. I just wanted..." He snorts, rolls his eyes, probably at himself. "Okay, screw it. Can we talk about this?"

Adam tugs his keys out of his jacket. "What is 'this,' again?" "What I said last night. Over the phone."

Oh, _that._ Adam purses his lips unhappily, hand freezing on the car door.

"I meant it -- all of it. About the whole thing. And you. I can't even tell you how much I wanted to... I don't know, anything, come see you or fly out here or show up on your tour bus and just hide from the whole thing. I thought about all the time. But I didn't want you to think--you _know_ how I feel, and I didn't, I didn't want it to be about that. That's why I... But it's not, now, so I guess that's why I'm saying this."

"Kris."

"You know."

"I know that this isn't a good conversation to have right now."

"I think it is, actually. Before I crap out on it again." Kris catches his arm and Adam turns around, grateful for the relative anonymity of the garage. He pushes himself forward, leg sliding between Kris's thighs. It puts him at full height and Adam's not above using it to his advantage: he can be intimidating like this, and whatever Kris is getting at, there's no way he can get around the fact he's got a guy, another _man_ , standing between his legs.

It should be enough to make whatever this is stop. Adam hopes it is, because he really is only so good of a person here. "This? Is over a line," Adam says.

"Finally."

Adam doesn't generally spend a lot of time speechless, but he's stumped, now. Even more when Kris pushes forward, wrapping his hand around the back of Adam's neck and tugging him down. The kiss is shallow and light, barely a brush of lips. It still makes Adam's whole body jerk like he's touched an electrical cord. He pulls back, reaching up to dig his fingers into Kris's hair. "What are you doing? Do you even know?"

Kris's mouth is open; his bottom lip looks wet, and oh God, the things Adam could do to him.

"Honestly? Not really. But I'm serious about this." Kris's fingers trail down Adam's neck and it makes him close his eyes, shiver. "Do I have to?"

Under any other circumstance, Adam would say no. Because Kris wouldn't be the first straight boy Adam's slept with. But Adam doubts Kris understands the idea of a friendly fuck, and he doubts even further that _he_ would be able to keep it that way, in his head.

 "This is a bad idea. You don't know what you're doing. You just--holy shit, Kris, I _have_ been paying attention to you, all those songs you're writing? You're--you're lonely, and you're scared and you're just, you're remembering that I have a thing for you--"

"A crush is not a 'thing,'" says Kris, and Adam laughs because it's exactly what he's been saying. "Non-threatening, right?"

"This feels threatening." Adam punctuates the comment by gripping Kris's wrists, just tight enough to emphasize that he could keep Kris in place, if he wanted to.

Kris's eyelids flutter; he inhales sharply, but doesn't try to get his hands away. "Feels pretty safe to me."

Which, Adam supposes, is the point. His whole body tenses, mouth set in a hard line. "Yeah," he says, terse. And he leans in, close to Kris's ear, tightening his grip on Kris's wrists when he whispers, "I'm not a fucking safety net." Lets go and turns back around, jerking the car door open with more force than completely necessary. "I've got to go. I'll see you later, okay?"

He half-expects Kris to stop him, argue, not let the conversation end _there_ of all places. He isn't sure if it's a relief or a disappointment when Kris just lets him go. Not that it matters. Adam manages to get home -- barely -- before he gives in, vision blurred in the constructed dark of his garage and fumbling for his iPhone to tap out a text message.

 _im sorry i freaked. bad idea shouldve stayed and talked_.

He rests his head on the steering wheel; he feels shaky, off-balance. The ping of the incoming text startles him, almost makes the phone fall out of his lap.

_i dont think youre fucking 'safe.'_

Adam hits the steering wheel, once, sting of his palm grounding him, pulling him out of his own melodrama. _didnt mean it like that. not mean. just... its 2 new._

The return text comes back fast, like Kris was just waiting to send it. _what if its not?_ Adam tilts his head at the screen, puzzled, and then a second text appears, seconds after the first. _i have a meeting. after that._

Easy for Kris to say; Adam would really love to have share-holders or businessmen distracting him, right now. He makes an exasperated noise and climbs out of the car, letting his front door slam hard enough to rattle the glass paneling in the windows.

"What the fuck," he asks the foyer, helplessly. His keys miss the dining room table and land on the tiled floor; when he kicks them, it's hard enough that they hit the wall on the other side of the room, a hard ringing crack that makes Adam wince, drains the rest of his anger. He fumbles through the kitchen cabinets for a glass of water and a codeine, rubbing at his eyes like it could make his head hurt less.

His phone's screen is really too bright. _call._

He tosses the phone down onto the counter and lays down on the couch.

Adam isn't really sure how long he falls asleep for -- he wakes up to the vibrating synth of his ring-tone, buzzing away on the kitchen counter. Getting up off of the couch in time is something of a hat trick; Adam nearly trips on the cushions and catches it on the last ring.

"I was worried you weren't going to answer." Kris's voice is startling on the other end of the line, and Adam rubs away the remnants of his finally-faded headache.

"Oh, oh no. I was asleep, actually." He yawns, as if on cue. "I'm awake now though, I swear."

Kris chuckles. "Which is great, 'cause this would be pretty hard if you fell asleep on me."

"I would never." But. "Can we do this face to face, though?"

"That sounds pretty ominous." The volume on Kris's phone is up enough that Adam can hear the rustle of fabric, tap of tile and indoor echo. He's probably still at 19, called even before he'd gotten back to his driver. "Yeah, um, yeah--we can definitely do that."

"It's not bad." Adam glances down at his fingers, picks nervously at the polish on his thumbnail. "I promise."

 Kris makes a soft noise, like agreement, and Adam imagines him nodding his head, weighing the potential of what Adam's just said. "Tonight?" he asks finally. "I've got a dinner with some people, but then we could..."

"Perfect. I'll meet you at your hotel?"

Another rustle, and Adam imagines Kris nodding, phone pressed to his ear against the reverberation of the 19 hallways.

"You know where to find me."


	2. Chapter 2

The Beverly Hills Hotel looks different, somehow, when Adam pulls up to it the second time: more foreign, maybe, the shock of garish color odd and out of place in rolling black hills and carefully cultivated green. It's funny, how it doesn't suit Kris, and Adam imagines Kris's sneakers scuffing on expensive tile when he hears his own boots click, tapping out the distance from the front door to the elevator. Twenty-six, twenty-seven -- Adam rocks on his heels in the elevator, feeling for all the world like he's going on a first date. Which is stupid, of course -- it's Kris, God, and he's honestly not sure how this is going to play out, right now.

That question, at least, dissolves as soon as Kris opens his door, button-down shirt undone to his sternum and bare toes digging into the plush, expensive rug. "Hey," he says carefully, stepping back to let Adam into the room before shutting the door again. "Just packing up. I'm pretty sure it all fit on the way here," he adds with a lopsided smile, scratching the back of his neck. "But, uh." There are still clothes hanging over the couch and chairs, and Kris's guitar is propped up out of his case against the crystalline windows. "Go figure."

"Dinner went alright?"

"What? Oh--yeah, I guess. Honestly I sorta zoned out. I don't think they actually needed me there, really I just go where they tell me and stand where they want and hey, there's the concert." He shrugs, still smiling. "As long as I get to play music I'm happy."

It's so very Kris, and Adam has to smile. On his first tour, Adam spent four days going over _lighting_ , another week and a half on costumes and set lists. Kris would forget all of that, if he could, let someone else work out the parts that aren't melody and lyric and be content just to stand and play music for the people in front of him. It's beautiful, the most honest and open Adam can imagine anyone being. Kris doesn't know how to lie through his music; he tells the truth, and people listen.

Which. Adam swallows, watches Kris shuffle across the room to zip his guitar into its case. "Were you serious, earlier?"

Kris freezes, guitar strap hoisted over his shoulder. He sets it down beside the bed and comes around to stand in front of Adam, close enough that his toes are almost touching Adam's boots. "Completely."

Adam swallows. He feels completely out of his league right now, and that _never_ happens. But Kris is something else, always has been -- that perfect joke, the one his friends like to tease he measures all his boyfriends against. He's tilting at windmills now. "Why?"

Kris laughs, startled and serious. "You're kidding, right? My friends at _home_ used to rag me about it, even back when we were touring together. People I've never met before knew I had a crush on you. I thought you knew."

Which... Adam did, of course. He could tell by top 13, even, the way Kris stared at him every time he came off stage. Would have probably tried to see how far that look could carry him, if Kris hadn't had a ring on his finger. But Adam's no cheater, from either side of the equation, and then Kris was a friend, and by the time he was a best friend it was cute, just sweet. Flattering, really, because while Adam's used to having straight boys stare, he's never looked back at one and thought, 'what if.'

He reaches out and grips Kris's arm, gently, letting his eyes wander down Kris's body to follow it.

"A crush. Non-threatening?"

Kris swallows, jaw set. "Scary as heck." He sways forward though, tilting his head back, and oh, Adam has never been the kind of boy to let this type of chance go by. Self-denial isn't his strong point, anyway. His other hand comes up to tangle in Kris's short hair, dragging him forward and into a kiss, and he's gratified, not surprised, when Kris kisses back like he's been waiting for the chance. It's awkward at first -- Kris kisses like a straight boy, like he's only ever been in charge, and he groans when Adam pulls back, biting at his bottom lip.

"I drive," Adam murmurs into his mouth, wrapping his other arm around Kris's waist. The move lets him guide Kris, peddle him backwards towards the bed, and when the backs of Kris's knees hit the mattress he buckles, pulling Adam down with him. 

"Shotgun," mumbles Kris, and Adam giggles and kisses him again. It's better this time, no bumped noses or odd angles. Adam cups Kris's jaw, sucks at his tongue playfully, and Kris is open and demanding and wriggling beneath him, one leg coming up to rub between Adam's. It sends a shiver down his spine, and Adam catches Kris's wrist and pins it against the mattress, spreads his legs a little farther to make room for Kris's thigh.

"How far do we want to take this tonight," asks Adam when he pulls back, just enough to lick at Kris's chin, bite his way across his jawline. Kris squirms happily, the hand Adam doesn't have trapped beside his head coming up to grab at Adam's hair, tug him lower, towards his neck.

"Not gonna hear me say to stop." 

As if on cue, Kris's phone trills. Adam groans and buries his face in Kris's neck. "That? Is karma."

"It's my alarm, actually." Kris fumbles to grab it, slaps it quiet with a few clumsy buttons. "Supposed to go to bed. I've got a bus call in freaking Portland tomorrow."

"You set an alarm to tell you to _sleep?_ " Adam gets his elbows back under him, lifting up enough so he can look Kris in the eye. "That's so cute." And God, he's adorable like this, in general, flushed from being under Adam and pouty-irritated, lips red and wet and faintly marked by teeth. It's too much temptation, and Adam leans back down to lick at his bottom lip. "Well," he says reasonably, into Kris's mouth, "I don't want to give you bad habits."

"Oh?" Kris's eyebrow raises when Adam's hand travels down, pops the button on Kris's jeans.

"Mm-hmm." The zipper comes down easy, and Kris lifts his hips like it's reflex, and Adam gets his jeans and his boxers in one movement. He's already hard and Adam can't help the wicked grin that stretches over his face, not when Kris is panting and blatantly _staring_ , glazed like he's not sure what Adam will do next.

What Adam does is get his arms back under him, ignoring the desperate sound Kris makes when he moves his hand away.

"Shouldn't keep you up past your bedtime."

Kris looks a little manic, and Adam can't keep a straight face.

"You _dick,_ " Kris breathes, when Adam starts to snicker, and Adam drops a quick kiss to his lips before sliding down between his legs. "Holy-- _jeez,_ " says Kris when Adam wraps his palm, spit- slicked, around the base of his cock.

"That's what I like to hear. Now watch."

At the first touch of Adam's mouth, Kris's hips come off the bed. He's close, already, and Adam squeezes the base of his cock, holding off his orgasm as he licks a line across the head. _Oh, sh- God,_ Kris swears, sounding genuinely shocked, and Adam laughs, humming happily as he dips down to take Kris in. He's so beautiful like this. Knew he would be, but still, Adam can't get over how _eager_ he is, can't get over the broken noises he makes when Adam presses his tongue flat or uses just the barest brush of teeth. There's a part of Adam that had expected Kris to be embarrassed by it, quiet or tentative, to treat sex like it wasn't something to _play_ with. It's silly, of course: Kris is the same like this as he is any other way, earnest and wide-eyed, just a little bit bossy. He digs his fingers into Adam's hair and squirms happily when he does something that Kris really likes, when Adam's fingers dig into the skin at the dip of his pelvis, sensitive, apparently ticklish. Adam glances up at Kris as he takes him in, all the way, notes how Kris's eyes flutter when Adam works his throat around him.

"Adam, please, just, gonna--"

Adam pulls away, wrapping his hand tight around Kris's cock and jerking, fast. "Come on." Kris gasps, and does as he's told.

Adam keeps working his hand through Kris's orgasm, hot spurts that make the glide smoother, leave Kris wrung-out against the mattress like he can't quite regain his bearings. When Adam pulls away it's to lick the come off his palm -- he's showing off, but that's the point. It gets results: Kris groans and reaches out to grab Adam by the elbow, tugging him up into a kiss that tastes like semen and sex, hotter for the fact that it's undeniably _real_. One of Kris's legs comes up to rub between Adam's, and Adam hisses, kisses harder; Kris lets go long enough to snake his hand between them, gives a tentative squeeze that could drive Adam crazy. 

Shit. Adam pulls back long enough to shove his pants down around his thighs, grabs Kris's wrist and guides his hand until it's wrapped around his cock. "Like that, oh, fuck," he swears, letting his head drop as Kris twists his palm across the head.

"You gotta tell me."

His fingers catch along the ridge; Adam shifts, giving him better access. "Just keep--oh, yes, exactly," he says, pushing into Kris's grip, and then he's back on him again, sucking a wet trail across his neck while Kris jerks him off.

It's not fancy, but it works. Adam figures Kris is probably just repeating what he does on himself, and it's good, it's fantastic, because it's _Kris_ and it's-- _yes._ Adam comes hard, striping Kris's t-shirt and hand and wringing a surprised gasp out of Kris when he does. It's the most tempting thing in the world, just to collapse on Kris, after, but Adam groans and rolls to his side, falls down onto the mattress until his heartbeat steadies, until the world expands back out beyond the feel of bodies together.

Kris speaks first, startling Adam. "Wow," he says, the end dragging into a breathy, shocked giggle. He glances down at himself, surveying the damage. "Nice." 

Adam laughs and takes the opportunity to wriggle the rest of the way out of his pants, pulling off his shirt as an afterthought and then motioning for Kris to do the same. "Oops," he says, watching Kris sit up long enough to undress; that shirt is never going to be the same again. He's even more beautiful with the clothes _off_ though -- Adam can't help but touch, reaches out to run his knuckles along Kris's jaw. It makes him shiver, but he doesn't flinch -- not at the possessive gesture, and not at the way Adam's thumb presses lightly against his throat, vague promise of something more

sparking like it could catch fire. Adam has to admit: with his lips kiss-swollen and his skin flushed, Kris looks every part the tease -- he shouldn't be getting anywhere near this, is too damn old to play with bicurious boys.

It's hard to hold onto that sense of self-preservation, though, because Kris has been perfect for him since the first time they'd had a conversation that went further than Idol, the first week in that stupid mansion, and Adam had fallen asleep thinking, _it's_ _always the straight ones, damn._

Adam pulls Kris back down onto the bed, buries his face in the side of Kris's neck. "I don't know what I'm doing, with you." 

"I'm pretty easy, actually," murmurs Kris, clumsily petting Adam's hair. He sounds tired, and Adam smiles despite himself, sighing heavily against Kris's skin.

"You aren't even close." It's nowhere near all of the things Adam needs to say, but there's a comfortable fog settling around his brain and for now, it's honest, and maybe that's enough. "Now move over, I'm sleepy."

Kris snorts, letting Adam move them both until he's curled against Adam's chest, Adam's arm slung tight around his waist. His eyes are already sliding shut, and Adam remembers this -- give him another three minutes and he'll be totally out. Adam's already scanning the room to see if he can find Kris's laptop, because there's no way he's falling asleep this early. _God, I love you,_ Adam thinks, and it startles him -- not the sentiment, but how _sharp_ it is, the way it twists up his stomach when he turns it in his mind. He doesn't say it though, just kisses Kris's shoulder and listens to his breathing even, counts down the rhythm like he could turn it into melody. They write songs about this, and Adam has always thought that, about Kris, and about the two of them together. It's just that they've always been sad, without lyrics, nothing gained by saying it all of it out loud.

Adam's not very good with that kind of music. 

*

Dropping Kris off at LAX is hard. Adam helps Kris get his bags out of the back of the Mustang and then hugs him tight on the sidewalk, a full-body cling that has him curled into a comma, face pressed hard into Kris's neck. 

"I can do long distance, I swear," he murmurs wetly, sniffling against sudden emotion he didn't even see coming. It's okay though, it's honest -- and Kris's voice sounds a little raw too when he chuckles into Adam's chest.

"You sound like I'm shipping off somewhere." His arms slide under Adam's blazer, palms warm against the thin cotton of his t-shirt. It's inappropriate, except that they've always been like this, and even if there were paps no one would be paying attention.

"A tour is definitely 'shipping off' somewhere." Adam pulls back, kissing the top of Kris's head and grabbing his duffel off the pavement. "I'm just going to kidnap you. It'd be easy, too, you'd fit in my pocket."

" _Nothing_ fits in your pockets," says Kris, eying Adam's jeans.

Adam hands Kris's bag to him and ducks in so he can say, "come back and you can get them off of me," quiet enough that he's sure no one else can hear them. Kris shivers and grips Adam's forearm, squeezing tight. He looks like he's having second thoughts about this whole responsible adult thing, and Adam grins wide when he straightens back up, says "ready to go?" brightly.

Kris glares at him. "You're a damn tease."

Adam laughs, hard enough to double himself over. "Payback, bitch." He doesn't sound apologetic at all. 

*

Kris's first tour date is a sell-out.

"I knew it would be," Adam shouts into the phone excitedly when Kris calls, cupping his other ear with his hand in a bid to hear over the din of the rest of the crowd. The club isn't the usual tinsel-Hollywood scene -- and thank God for that, really, because Adam's found it's easy to forget that he actually lives in West Hollywood, these days, that it's his home and not just a fishbowl he happened to fall in the middle of. Right now he's standing just off of a stage not much higher than the dance floor itself: it's all one of Cassidy's orchestrations tonight, leather and rivets and thick, glittered makeup. Adam's here on the sidelines, and it feels good to be surrounded by people he knows, and hasn't just heard of.

Kris's voice sounds rubbed-raw, like he just got finished singing -- he sounds happy, though, and it's contagious when he speaks, makes Adam smile like an idiot in a room full of people. "My manager left me a voice mail when I got off the stage. She sounded kinda shell-shocked. I guess a couple others are like, seventy percent or something, so I guess we're doing pretty good." There's a loud shock of music from one of the speakers behind Adam, and Kris laughs. "Where are you?"

"It's a revue," Adam says, making a _be right back_ gesture at Cassidy. "It's a friend's thing, I'm just here to get out. I can barely hear you, hang on just a sec."

The bathroom isn't all that quieter than the rest of the club, but Adam can hear himself think, at least. More importantly, he can hear Kris, and he locks the door and leans against it, catching a glimpse of his glitter-and-sweat smeared face in the mirror. He looks a little debauched, and he really wants to take Kris to one of these, someday. "That's more than Daughtry or the Killers did last year. You made Brandon Flowers your bitch."

Kris snorts. "It's not that big a deal."

"It _is!_ " In the other room, someone's started a dance track, and Adam ducks back against a stall and cradles the phone closer. He knows he's probably on a different decible scale as Kris entirely right now, but holy fuck. There's no reason he should be quiet about this, anyway. "It's a huge deal. You're a rock star."

"Mom-rock, I think. And I'm only the opener."

"Stop that! Just take the compliment, oh my God." There's a knock at the door, and Adam raises his hand automatically. "Just a minute!" 

"Man, where _are_ you?" 

"In a bathroom?" Adam's smile feels goofy, blinding, and Kris laughs. "I have my drink with me, too. It's an awful cliche, isn't it?" He looks at the mirror again, catches his own reflection. He's wearing leather and shimmering fabric and his hair is cockatoo-skewed in the back, sparks of green and now purple and gold at the edges, but the expression that looks back at him is the same one he's had since he was a teenager, earnest and lovesick. He makes a a face at himself, distorting the image. "I miss you."

"Me too. It's still weird--I mean, it's stupid because it's been so long, but every time I get off stage I sorta expect you to be there."

Adam can't help the noise he makes at that, something dangerously close to a happy _aw_. "You aren't real, Kris Allen," he says, voice all twisted up with the earnestness of it, "and you're coming back next week, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it." They're not playing LA, just yet anyway, but Ryan is coming back to guest- judge on Idol, and Kris gets to tag along for a radio show in Glendale. Same week as Adam hits Idol, actually, which is...not how Adam would have expected a line-up to go. Not that it matters, of course: he's performing "He Said," a ballad that's still in the Billboard Top 20, and America's 'family show' isn't going to know what hit it.

There's another knock, louder this time. _Okay, okay!_ calls Adam again, and he can hear Kris chuckle on the other end of the line. "Man, that's how rumors start," he says, and Adam laughs and unlocks the door, stepping back out into the much-louder walkway. The lights are back up, which means production's in take-down, and Adam remembers enough from prior experience that whoever doesn't help is going to get stuck with the shitty jobs, next time. Being a rock star doesn't grant anyone immunity.

"Okay, I really have to let you go. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" There's a rustling sound and he imagines Kris nodding against the phone, _misses_ him so sharply it makes his chest hurt. He has no idea how they went so long apart, before. "Goodnight, baby," he murmurs into the receiver. He lets Kris hang up first, phone still pressed to his ear as he navigates back into the kaleidoscope of the audience.

After he's been on tour for a while, it's easy for Adam to forget just how _weird_ West Hollywood can be. Not in the way that he grew into adulthood, with: before _Idol_ , Adam thinks he was probably the weird part of WeHo, the glitter, noise and chaos that made other people think "that place" of what he just called home. "Weird" never really meant anything before Adam got famous -- another label he took pride in, the opportunity to twist.

 "Weird," now, means a thousand different things. Not being able to go out shopping in anonymity, for one, or not having to make a reservation because the person attending already knows your name. Having the places you go _mean_ something, because you're not just you, you're also a brand, and every photograph outside of a drag show or cabaret launches another sixth-page- in gossip rag debate on whether it's just "hitting the town" or "fallen Idol" behavior. Even worse if Adam has someone else with him -- it frustrates him, sometimes, but Hollywood is just like the rest of the world, thinks everyone Adam so much as holds hands with is in his pants, too.

All of that comes back when he and Cassidy slide out of the club and back into the street; there's a hoard of photographers out on the sidewalk, and Adam puts on his best _you're_ _just_ _doing your job_ smile and holds up a hand against the glare of the flash bulbs.

"Okay, you guys, he's a friend. Can we do this when I'm more interesting, maybe?" Someone off to the side asks, _just_ _a friend?_ possibly asks if they can kiss for the cameras, but Adam just ignores it. Cassidy's already ducked under somebody's raised photo lens and made it to the vehicle. "Does anyone even do anything on a Thursday?" 

There's a final round of snap-snap-click as Adam slides into the front seat, and Cassidy's laughing by the time they're pulled out into traffic, craning his neck to look behind them at the lingering paparazzi. "I didn't know you were that kind of rock star," he says, and Adam sighs and changes lanes.

"It's only like this when I go out with somebody, really, it's so crazy. I'm a little fucking sick of it, actually." He tugs off his sunglasses -- it's too dark for them, and he's starting to feel kind of like a dick, still wearing them while he's driving. "It's just tacky, like, I know they have to make a living, but I really don't think my dating life is that exciting." "What's left of it," Cassidy agrees.

Home is a relief: always is, and Adam doesn't bother playing host, just waves Cassidy in the direction of his bar. He'd consider changing out of his clothes but the bedroom's just too damn far away; he gives up halfway through the living room and collapses down onto the couch, slinging his arm over his eyes to block out the overhead lighting.

"So, in all seriousness," says Cassidy, putting enough bottles out on the counter that Adam officially has no idea what he's doing. "Is everything okay? Wallflower isn't your color, beautiful."

Adam peeks out from under his forearm. "You've been talking to Alisan, haven't you?" "We're a horrible, gossipy bunch."

Adam huffs.

There's a clinking of crystal, and Adam sits back up when Cassidy comes around the sofa. He's got a tumbler of what looks like gin but ends up being a gimlet and he hands it over to Adam before folding down beside him, Adam's entire bottle of SoCo perched between his knees. Adam shakes his head, takes a drink from his own glass before he even tries to speak.

"I think I'm doing something stupid," he says, mouth scrunching up thoughtfully. "When Kris was down here, this last time, we..." Adam waves his hand, vaguely, because _hooked up_ sounds so fucking crass and _talked_ is the one thing they didn't do enough of. "I'm just processing."

There's a long pause, like Cassidy isn't sure how to respond. "Wow," he says, finally, and Adam laughs, because, yeah. "Well that's big." 

He sounds as shocked as Adam feels, and Adam shakes his head. "I feel bad even talking about it. He's just, it's Kris, you know? There isn't really room to mess up here. Can you imagine what would happen--like, going out on a date, with how crazy it was tonight?" Adam frowns, looking down at the polish on his nails. He's getting so ahead of himself, but he wasn't lying to Cassidy: it's _Kris._ "Even if we got serious, I don't know how it would work." 

Cassidy _hmmm_ s, taps his fingers thoughtfully against the bottle cupped between them. "Well, what does that mean for you? You're gonna have to try eventually, baby. I don't think I need to tell you what they'd call it if you hid it."

Adam looks at the floor. "I'm not going back into a closet. But I'm not pulling anyone out of one, either. I don't even know what this is to him. He wouldn't do this intentionally, but...sometimes you just want someone, you know?" Adam empties his glass, focusing on the burn as it slides down his throat. The effect is almost instant, a heavy, spreading warmth, and he leans back into warm leather, closing his eyes again. "I'm trying to just take this as it comes at me."

Cassidy raises an eyebrow. He doesn't say anything though, leans over instead and pours from his bottle into Adam's empty cup, clinking both together and muttering _cheers_ before he drinks. Adam follows suite, then wrinkles his nose. "Too sweet." He looks down at the drink, swirls the tumbler in his hands and watches the amber-tinted alcohol slosh against the sides. "I really do believe things work out the way they're supposed to," he says after a minute, more quietly, serious. "Kris and I were meant for something. I don't know if it's this, but--there's a reason I met him, you know? Whatever that is--I'll be okay with that." It might _suck,_ but Adam doesn't believe that 'love of your life' is a zero-sum game, and sometimes you don't get the chance to keep your winnings. "I'll always love him." Just like Brad.

"You've got to give yourself more than that. You want to be in love--it's why you're better than the rest of us just out having a damn good hedonistic time." Adam smiles at that, shakes his head before Cassidy shushes him with a hand wave. "But you're entitled to not think about someone else first, here." He reaches over and brushes Adam's bangs out of his face. "You're everybody else's caretaker, baby--just try taking advice instead of giving it, for once." 

Adam blinks, hand coming up to rub at his eyes without even really noticing he's doing it. He nods, though, and he ducks his head to look at his hand, hiding a small, teasing smile. "Why didn't we ever hook up, again?"

"Because you are way too much attention than I will ever have time for. And I'm nowhere near enough of a queen for you." 

Adam laughs. "I'll let Kris know you say that."

*

It's Songwriter Week on _Idol,_ when Adam performs; he's not quite sure of the rules for the theme, but the contestants are singing from lists by Paul Simon and John Mayer, and Kara is throwing around Bernie Taupin's name like she wants to poke an eye out with it. It's silly, but Adam likes it, even more so when he steps out onto the stage for his first appearance as an artist, rather than a contestant. The lights go green and golden and he's eschewed back-up dancers in favor of black leather and cat-eye makeup, raising an eyebrow at Simon when the smoke machine starts up, when shimmering bits of paper meant to look like rain drop from an overhead holder in time with the strings that build up the chorus of "He Said." _I don't want to love you now if you'll just leave_ _someday..._

It's over fast, and Adam shakes his head to clear it and grins at the way Kara and Randy are clapping, at the arched eyebrow that (Adam thinks) means Simon is proud. Wiggles his fingers in Simon's direction with a happy smirk, because well, shit. 

Backstage, his mom is already cheering, bouncing on the balls of her feet and laughing when Adam picks her up, spins her around in a hug. "This is so crazy. I mean, I've been at the _Grammys_ and this was even crazier than that. Is that weird?"

"It's your homecoming, baby." Leila reaches out to dust some of the glitter off of Adam's forehead. "And you've got a fan waiting for you."

Adam eyes her, ready with a comeback, and then he sees Kris, cheesy newspaper cap pulled over his eyes and gray button-down done up to just below his collar. He looks sheepish, like he isn't sure if he should be here or not, and Adam squeals, actually _squeals_ , wrapping him in a full-body hug that gets glitter and makeup on his clothing. 

"You! I didn't think you'd be here already!"

Kris laughs, arms looping easily around Adam's waist. "One of my radio things got canceled so I hitched a ride with Ryan. Wow." His eyes are wide, and Adam's as brave as he dares, dipping down to kiss just the corner of Kris's mouth. It could be friendly, if you ignore the way Kris relaxes into it, the way his hands slide under the leather of Adam's jacket to dig into the thin fabric of the shirt underneath. When Adam pulls back, Kris looks a little dazed. "You look, holy crap," he finishes, so quiet that only Adam can hear.

Adam looks down at himself, tries to pinpoint what Kris is staring at. There are a lot of options: Adam's _covered_ in glitter, from the stage and from his own makeup kit, and it reflects off the snake-scale pattern of his jacket, the shimmering mirror-ball black of his shirt and the long chains of beads and necklaces draping around his collar. His hair is slicked back and he's got on cat-eye makeup, remembers the way the kohl stuck to his fingers when he smudged it against his eyelids.

"Too much?" Adam looks back up, watching Kris's face. "I wanted theatrical."

Kris laughs. "You definitely got that. No, it's not too much. Jeez. Everybody out there looks like kids, compared to that." Kris gestures back out to the stage, where Ryan is telling the camera the number to call if they want to vote for one of the contestants, a tall blonde boy who sang Panic! at the Disco last week. "Is that even songwriting," asks Kris with a twisted smile. Adam grins back, hands still low on Kris' hips.

Dinner is at a restaurant Adam hasn't been to before: the whole Idol thing, complete with after- party, minus the awkward need to play nice with everyone. He tips back the last of his third chocolate martini and slouches down low enough to lean against Kris's shoulder, hair fanning out against his neck and collar.

"You'd look pretty with colored hair," he tells him when he catches a flash of his own green fringe against Kris's skin.

"Um, not so much."

"I have this pink wig, I bet you'd look amazing." Adam rolls his head a little, rubbing his cheek against Kris' shoulder like a cat. His shirt smells like detergent, and soft like it's had way too many washings, and Adam wonders, a little dreamy, what it would look like sharing closet space.

Kris chuckles. "I'm gonna leave the glam thing to you."

"I'll get you eventually." Adam closes his eyes, sighs and lets himself lean more heavily against Kris. It's a bit surreal, being back in the Idol bubble -- even not _in_ it, exactly, just along the edges. The kids at the center of the table -- top thirteen, someone told Adam earlier -- are so wide-eyed and there's that shock of it just being so wild, getting sucked into the machine and hoping you wash up on the other side. "Did you ever think about this part? Wearing the Idol crown?" Adam waves a hand in a loose marquee in front of them, gestures over to the table where someone's taking photos of a cousin, or sister, with the various new Idols.

Kris tilts his head back in amusement. "I really don't even know where that stupid trophy is, so nah."

"Isn't it weird, though? That one thing keeps defining us?" "Everybody gets that. I think we're just lucky ours is pretty tame."

Over near the cluster of Idol contestants someone turns with the camera, gestures it at Kris and Adam. There's a flash and then attention is directed their way, and Adam groans and sits up, reaches over to grab Kris's water and drinks half of the glass in one take.

"Time to be rock stars," grins Kris, lopsided, standing and pulling Adam to his feet.

"Nothing more real than what's on TV." Adam turns on his celebrity smile and steps around to take pictures. 

*

It's close to midnight when the chauffeur drops them both off at Adam's house; Kris's overnight bag hits the wood floor with a heavy thud, and Kris kicks at it half-assedly, sending it skidding in the general direction of the staircase.

"Oh my God that took forever."

Kris leans heavily against the front door, groaning. With his eyes closed and his back against the wood it's not even worth trying to resist -- Adam's in front of him with two long strides, tipping his head back and dropping kisses over his mouth, cheeks, jawline.

"I know I should sit you down and ask about your day, but I really, really just want to get you naked."

Kris's hands slide into Adam's back pockets, and Adam's going to take that as agreement, spinning them abruptly and pushing Kris into the bedroom. He's not familiar with the layout of Adam's house, stumbles a couple of times on the slick wood of the hallway floor, but Adam keeps him up, hands locked on Kris's elbows and fumbling the lights on just before he all but tosses him on the bed. 

"Clothes off, now." It comes out rougher, more desperate than Adam expected -- he feels exposed like this, needy and sharper around the edges than he intended. Kris watches him undress with wide eyes, fumbles with his own jeans and lets Adam pull him up to his knees long enough to pull the sweater he's wearing up and over his head. "Fuck, you're so hot." Adam presses their palms together, uses his own weight to push Kris back down against the mattress. "How do you ever get out of a bed?"

"I keep trying not to, but people keep making me." Kris grins when Adam rolls him over, biting a blossom-branch of little red marks across his back. His arms slide up to pin Kris's against the mattress, and he sighs and slides down harder against him when Kris just takes it, wrists twisting loosely in Adam's grasp. "God."

Adam nods into Kris's neck, digging his nails into the thin skin of Kris's hands. He looks-- amazing isn't even the word for it, right now, flushed and spread out and on his stomach beneath him. Every push of Adam's hips slides his cock along Kris's ass, fucking gorgeous _tease_ , and Adam pushes against him harder and hisses at the reaction, the way Kris arches up and takes it, murmurs _yeah, come on_ like he's imagining the same thing as Adam.

"Come on," Kris repeats, and Adam mutters _oh fuck_. He twists so both of Kris's hands are trapped in one of his own, brings the other down to grip Kris's hip, enough to hold him steady while he shoves against him in earnest. The move presses his cock hard between their bodies, and Adam's not expecting the heat that spreads low in his stomach, the way his whole body coils like a spring at having Kris under him like this, hot and solid and unbelievably willing. He's pushing back against Adam with a kind of teasing enthusiasm: it's not a rhythm, and it's driving him crazy, making him rut down harder, more selfish, orgasm building and he can feel it in his toes. It hits him abruptly, faster than he's come in _years_ , at least -- his gut clenches hard and his whole body shakes, sharp needy thing taking him over entirely.

"Holy shit that was so fast." He can hear how hoarse he sounds, and it'd be embarrassing, if it wasn't so good. Adam's mind clears gradually on the thought that it's Kris, that can undo him like this. It's a little scary, frankly, and it makes something in Adam's stomach flip. Underneath him, Kris laughs, a breathy noise that trails off into a gasp when Adam slides off of him, abruptly.

Adam hauls Kris's hips up, gets him onto hands and knees and wraps a fist around Kris's cock. He's close, Adam can feel it, can tell in his tense muscles and the way his breathing hiccups when Adam touches him. He squeezes the base once, hard, and Kris groans. "Good boy," Adam says into his ear, and then he's licking a hot line down the sharp indents of Kris's spine, further. 

"Oh--you're--"

"Shut up," Adam says, pressing his forearm down on Kris's lower back to hold him still, and Kris cuts off abruptly when Adam's mouth comes down on him, teeth scraping the dip of his tailbone and lower, licking in a tight circle that makes Kris gasp for air. _That's_ _it,_ he thinks, feeling irrationally smug at the way Kris whimpers and drops his forehead to the mattress; he feels stable like this, back in control a little -- it's kind of an ugly feeling, and he's not entirely proud of it, but he still lifts his hand to his mouth to briefly wet his index finger, still smiles in only sort of misplaced triumph when he presses his fingertip into Kris, just barely, makes him whine and buck into Adam's too-tight fist. "Just wait," says Adam smoothly, leaning forward to press his tongue in against his fingers.

Kris moans. "I can't--"

"You can." Adam squeezes his cock again, just enough that he _can't_ come, and twists into Kris further, just barely, just to the first knuckle. Kris is shaking, now, and Adam pushes his tongue in, hums as he does it; the effect is amazing, like Kris doesn't know he's talking, and it's a steady litany of pleas and gasps and Adam's name over it, the best part of all. It's sort of beautifully, filthily sweet, and Adam fucks him with his tongue and loosens the hand around his dick, lets Kris rock forward into his palm and back into his mouth and makes little encouraging noises, crooking the finger inside of Kris enough to give it edge, remind him what he's doing, what it _means_ and who it's with.

Kris comes with a noise like his orgasm's surprised him: it's broken and off-key, and it's accompanied by his legs finally giving out on him. Adam lets him down onto the mattress gently, covers Kris's body with his own again and dots kisses along his neck and the shell of his ear until Kris stirs, tries to turn over in Adam's arms.

Adam shivers and kisses his neck again, keeping him facing the silence of the pillows. His chest feels tight and he's not really sure what to say, in this case. He suddenly, sharply misses the part of sex that used to be about _I love you_ , in the end.

He's probably heavy, though, and he rolls off of Kris with a sigh. One of their t-shirts is still caught on the drawer to the nightstand and Adam scoops it up, wipes his face briefly, uses it to clean off the worst of the mess from his own stomach and thighs, from off of Kris's back. 

"Those pictures from tonight are going to end up online," says Adam quietly, tossing the ruined shirt back down towards the foot board. "We should be okay, but it was still stupid of me not to think about it then. We could have been more careful."

"Careful how?"

Adam sits up, slings his legs off the edge of the mattress. The sheets pool around his waist and he tugs them a little tighter. "I'm just afraid this is going to get mistaken for something it's not."

Kris sits up as well, shifting so he's looking at Adam directly. "Something it's 'not' being..."

Adam waves it off. "All it takes is one picture and it ends up anywhere... it's different. When everyone knows."

Kris shakes his head. "I don't care."

"You will!" It comes out angrier than Adam intended, and he amends, softly, "everyone does. Even I do, sometimes. What this is right now... it's still safe. I don't want you to lose that and regret it later."

"Why are you so sure I'm gonna regret it later?"

Adam doesn't say anything.

There's a pause where Kris bites his lip and nods, slowly like he's digesting what Adam's just told him. "I don't even know what to say to that," Kris says, finally. He sounds sad, kind of tired, and so _resigned_ that Adam's stomach twists up. "I do know what I'm in for, I've definitely thought about it. I think maybe you're the only one who's thinking about 'safe.'" Adam can _hear_ the irritation dripping from Kris's voice, the way he wrinkles his nose on the word like it's personally offensive. "I'm not in this for...fun, or whatever, and it's kind of dick of you to think that way, really. I'm serious here. And it's up to you--if you don't believe that, then I guess you get to decide how long you want to keep doing something that doesn't mean anything anyway."

It's a terrifying statement, and the way Kris says it -- he's so _calm_ about it, like it makes perfect sense, and Adam swallows, hard, because there's no right response. Feels even worse about it when Kris just curls back down again, so fucking innocuous Adam isn't sure what to do. He stares at Kris, completely at a loss, and it must be so obvious because Kris sighs heavily. "Forget it. Just go to sleep, okay? I'm not mad."

Adam sincerely doubts that. He relents anyway though, lying down tentatively, like jostling too much could make Kris run away. There's only a few inches of space between them but Adam's hyper-aware of it, wants to close the distance but isn't quite sure what to say. He hates lying, and Kris would know if he did, anyway. He's absolutely sure Kris would know.

Beside him, Kris reaches out to wrap his fingers around Adam's forearm. "G'night," he says, voice already slightly slurred, and Adam looks over, distracted, brushes at Kris's hair and leans to press a quick kiss to his forehead. Not mad. Maybe. Either way, Kris is out in all of two minutes and Adam can't help but laugh; it's reassuring, actually, something so weirdly _innocent_ about the way Kris looks in sleep, like he's let everything go, completely at ease. Adam is jealous of the talent, wishes he was able to take some of it himself.

He frowns at the ceiling and stays awake.

* 

At least Hollywood is on his side in the morning: he finds parking not even a block from Basix and gets to the door without so much as a camera flash, slouch cap pulled low over his hair and aviators covering his eyes. He feels like shit, honestly -- he got up at five to take Kris to LAX and couldn't sleep again afterward, only drifted off in time to hear his alarm trill that he was already late for breakfast. He spots his mom out on the patio, drinking a latte and chatting on her phone. Talking to Paul, probably -- Adam hears _you too_ as she hangs up, stands to kiss his cheek when he makes his way to her table. 

"I'm really sorry," Adam says as soon as he sits down, rubbing at his eyes underneath his glasses. They feel grainy and puffy and he's pretty sure he'd look like one of _those_ celebrities -- the party- all-night-kind -- if he took them off. Which he can be, sometimes, but he usually at least remembers to put on some damn makeup first. "Kris had a flight _so_ early this morning. I went back home and planted."

"It's okay, honey. Are you feeling okay?" She raises an eyebrow, head dipping as she looks at his sunglasses. "It's not really that bright."

Adam pulls the glasses up long enough to show her his eyes, puffy and red around the edges. "I'm just sleepy," he says with a smile he hopes is reassuring. "I was up pretty late." On second thought, he amends, "thinking!" with a sheepish smile.

Leila _tsks_ , reaching out to squeeze his hand. The waiter reappears to bring them both water -- Adam orders a mimosa, grins when his mom adds a second to the order -- and it's blissfully normal, one of those mornings -- afternoons, Adam guesses -- where he gets to play at not being famous. It's everything he loves about Hollywood, usually.

"Okay, mister. Spill." Leila leans forward, fixing him with a stare that usually means _busted_. "What's going on." 

Adam rubs at his eyes again, knuckles grazing plastic rims. He probably looks awful; he can feel the tendrils of a migraine working their way between his eyes, kind of suspects he'll be back in bed pretty soon. "It's nothing," he says finally. "We argued a little last night, that's all."

Leila reaches over and squeezes his forearm, briefly. "About?" "He says I don't believe he's serious about being together."

"Is he right?" 

Adam drops his head to the table, closing his eyes when he feels his mom's fingers carding gently through his hair. "Maybe? It's just... I don't think he gets what it means, if we really do this--what it's going to change for him. I think he thinks he means it, but when it's not just us, when everyone knows?" Leila makes a soft, calming sound, and Adam bites his lip. He isn't going to cry. "I don't want him to hate me if he changes his mind," he mutters finally, face pressed into the table cloth.

Leila doesn't answer right away -- Adam closes his eyes and sighs into the table, wonders just how eccentric it would make him to fall asleep, right here. He's considering it, on the edge between 'just resting my eyes' and 'fuck it' when his mom tugs at his hair, gently, and he has to glance back up.

"I'm no expert, but I think if you asked your dad he'd tell you something about straight boys and dating other men." Adam laughs, and Leila smiles at him, brushing his bangs back from his forehead. "Let's try this another way. Are you happy? With Kris?"

"God, yeah." Adam sits back up. "There's this energy, you know? Everything's better with him. It's like--" _like_ _Brad,_ he wants to say, except he knows that it's not. Brad was his first love, he'll always love him, Adam's sure, but it was hyper-real and biting, sharp in the way that dug into skin and left wounds, that hurt. Romeo and Juliet shit, the kind of crazy that rubbed off in how they fought and how they fucked, the places they went and the mutual friends they kept and the way Adam didn't know how to breathe, sometimes, without Brad there to show him. Kris isn't like that; Adam's older now, his own person by himself, even when he's alone, and he knows Kris is, too. "It's big," he finishes, because it seems the most true.

"How big?"

Adam opens his mouth, snaps it shut again with a smirk. Leila shakes her head, laughing. "Okay, you, don't even."

Adam snorts indelicately and stares down at his hands. If he twists them, this way and that, the rings catch and reflect the light through his water glass. "I think I could fall in love with him," he says finally.

"So isn't it worth trusting him?"

"You're totally on his side," says Adam, but he can feel warmth spreading over him, something like relief when the knot he's tied up in begins to uncoil.

"I think he knows more about himself than you give him credit for."

"It's just scary. I've only ever... it was always Brad, I guess. Even--I loved Drake, but I don't think I was _in_ love with him. Kris... he's perfect for me." It's a terrifying thing to say out loud, even -- maybe especially -- to his mom, and Adam looks up at the awning above them, anywhere but directly at her. "Even... I would have never, ever said, done anything then, but we'd be sitting out in the lounge on tour just talking, and I'd think, it's so weird that all of these things came together so he was there in front of me, but he wasn't... somebody I could ever have." Adam shakes his head, feeling guilty even saying it. "I felt so bad when he told me about him and Katy because I kept thinking, oh God, what if I'd done it? What if I wanted it so hard it made it true?"

"You know that's not true. Adam--look at me." Adam does, suddenly fully aware of the way the corners of his mouth are trembling. He's not going to cry in public, he's not. "What happened with Kris and Katy has nothing to do with you. It sounds like that's what Kris was doing, keeping you two apart for so long. Right?"

One year. Three hundred and sixty five days. Adam nods, biting the inside of his cheek. "Then don't feel bad right now -- certainly not for being happy. And you know, I saw him watching you last night, on the teleprompter," she adds, turning to thank the waiter as he brings them their drinks. "I don't think you're the only one who feels the way you do." Adam squeezes his eyes shut, briefly. "I hope so."

* 

Adam's headache doesn't vanish, but it doesn't get worse, either. He ends up at home by mid- afternoon, curled up on his bed with the television and a bottle of Advil. There are a half-dozen messages on his iPhone, waiting: from Danielle, and Cassidy, both of which he answers, but from RCA and 19 too, both of which can wait. When he's done, he swallows his pride and nerves long enough to open a text message to Kris, taps it out quickly and tosses the phone away from him as soon as he hits send.

_i forgot 2 say: whatever this is or isnt i'm happy. with u._

The response, when it comes, makes his eyes burn again, and he falls asleep with his phone on the pillow beside his head.

_me too. always am._

* 

Tuesday is _Ellen._ Adam isn't entirely sure why Tuesday is _Ellen_ \- he's not promoting anything, exactly, right now - but he loves Ellen, and he's not going to argue when the message left for him by RCA ends up being a request for him to come down to fill a vacancy guest-spot. He shows up an hour before they're scheduled to record and tackles Ellen when he sees her, staggering them both forward because no, really, he loves his job when he gets to do things like this. It's strange, and kind of fun, to be there without performing, and when the cameras go on Adam curls up in Ellen's over-sized chair and tells her about being on Idol again, beams when she offers him a bedazzled version of the _Laugh. Dance. Dream_ t-shirt.

"I will totally wear this." Adam holds it up for the camera, giggling. "I will. I'm gonna wear this on-stage. Do you know I still have my one from Idol?" Well, Kris's shirt, anyway. Adam wears it as pajamas, when he's in a situation where he has to wear pajamas. 

"So, you've been finished with your tour -- the Glamour Ball Tour, right? -- you've been finished with that for a couple of months now. And you know, one of the best-selling tours last year, so wow."

"Thank you." Adam ducks his head, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear. "We put together an amazing band and it was so much fun. I'm really proud of it."

"You should be, too, you're doing wonderful things. Now what's the hardest part of getting off of that, since this is your first break in, well..."

" _Forever,_ oh my God. It's strange, you know? Now I get why you see pictures of Lindsey Lohan and everybody out shopping all the time -- when you're not out doing something for your job there just isn't all that much you can do with all the cameras around." Adam considers, amends quickly with, "but I'm not that famous! Yet! I can still go to McDonalds and get looks like, 'hey, is that Pete Wentz? Oh, wow, I thought you were shorter.'" He smiles.

"Is there anything you _can't_ do, or that's more difficult now?"

"Well, dating," says Adam, with another laugh. "You can't hit the club scene when everyone saw you on Ellen yesterday." 

It generates some amusement from the audience, particularly when Ellen rejoins with, "do you date a lot of my viewers? That's not a demographic I would have pictured from you." 

Adam laughs, folding in half with it, blushing. "Actually, you know what, my boyfriend watches your show." Not religiously or anything, but Adam used to turn on daytime television on their rare downtime between venues, crammed up front with Matt and Michael playing poker, with Danny's ever-present phone a murmur in the back until Adam waved his arms, _ooh, Gaga is performing!_

He caught Kris saying, "Ellen said," one night when he was coming off of his first tour, had teased him about 'rubbing off' until Kris had snickered through the phone line, muttered sheepishly about it reminding him of Adam. Sometimes Adam thinks he favors the show for that, alone.

Adam has never talked to Kris about _this_ , before, though, and the title is new. Adam claps his hand over his mouth with a mumbled, "oops." He waves sheepishly at the camera closest to him. "Hi honey." He feels a little exposed, but Ellen plows through it, reaches over to squeeze his knee and moves on to some challenge, a couple of girls who want to have Adam teach them to put on eye makeup. It's a relief, but Adam still steps off the stage and texts, _I am so sorry_ , sending it to Kris as he slides out of the studio. The response comes while Adam is outside signing, and he excuses himself long enough to take Kris's phone call.

On the other end of the line, Kris sounds amused as hell. "I'm your _boyfriend_ now," he drawls. 

"Fuck you!" That was, maybe, a little too loud. Adam ducks his head and steps back into the doorway. "I'm so sorry, it just slipped out."

"Don't apologize." Adam glances up at the brick side of the building, doing his best not to shuffle. He feels nervous, the way he hasn't felt in _years_ , with his love life. He thinks he likes it, but he isn't sure. When Kris talks again it's cautious, like maybe he's thinking the same thing. "So that's new."

Adam lets his breath out in a rush. "Yeah, about that." This is such a ridiculous time to have this conversation, but Adam's life is nothing if not largely ridiculous. "I was being so stupid," he says, rubbing at his eyes under his sunglasses. "I couldn't stop thinking about it, after you said it. I don't--this isn't casual, I wouldn't want it to be." He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against the brick of the studio building. "I love you and I want this for real, all of it. I want to do this."

The silence on the other end of the line is almost terrifying, and when Kris answers it's a relief. "Wow." He sounds a little shaky, and Adam imagines him sitting on a couch somewhere, running his hand over his face or leaning forward on his knees, the way he does when he's shocked by something, like his body won't support him. "That's... pretty big."

"Yeah." It's barely more than a whisper, but he knows Kris can hear it. "I mean it, though. I think I have for a while. It's funny, how scared you can get without even really knowing why."

There's silence on the other end, and then Kris says, "jeez, Adam," and Adam laughs because _basically._ "You have no idea how freaking worried I was. I don't know what I was gonna do if you'd decided on giving up on this."

"That couldn't happen." There's absolute conviction in his voice -- that much, he always knew. "Where are you?"

Kris chuckles: it sounds nervous, maybe, just a bit. "Heading into Arkansas. I'm in Texarcana." "That's what it's _called?_ "

"For real." He gets that accent, when he says it, like he never left the South; Adam can't help but smile, feels his expression going soft.

"I bet you're excited," he says, remembering hog-calls and thousands of exuberant fans. "Terrified, but I'm pretty sure they're not gonna boo me."

Adam laughs. There's another flurry of noise from back by the gates -- Kris must be able to hear it, too, because he laughs again. "Okay, I'm hogging you here. You've got the rock star thing to do and I'm supposed to be doing some phone interview, anyway. Shoo."

Adam doesn't want to, not at all. It's part of the game though, and he knows as soon as he gets back out there, he'll be glad he did. "I really miss you."

"Me too. Now go, c'mon. It's not like I'm going anywhere." Which is actually a lie -- Kris is crossing state lines as he speaks. Still, there are fans waiting and cameras to pose for and Adam says goodbye like it doesn't suck, every time.

When Adam slides back to the barricade it's with a broad smile and damp eyes, sunglasses pulled down against the latter as he gives signatures. Off to the side, a camera flashes; Adam turns and waves, poses for a photo with a younger fan. "Who were you talking to?" someone asks, in front of him, and when Adam says _boyfriend_ it's the best thing he's said in a very long time.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Adam doesn't think about why he's flying into Nashville. He books the flight ten hours before take-off, puts his calls and obligations on hold for the weekend. He's had Kris's tour schedule on his kitchen table since it started, and Tennessee is the stop directly after Little Rock; he spends fifteen hours terrified of the prospect, five minutes after that throwing his hands up and making the itinerary. His assistant rides him about it the entire way to the terminal, until he finally silences his PDA, emails her, I'm taking personal time, hold everything please, and turns the damn machine off, for serious.

Backstage, the Music City Theater is barely-collected chaos and Adam takes the chance just to soak it all in: he hasn't been here in years, at the edge of the storm rather than its center. He gets his pass from a roadie who catches the tour manager for him and stands in the back, behind one of the amplifiers. He can watch Kris play here, but Kris can't see him, and he's struck again by how beautiful he is. There's a glow to him, on stage, and Adam thinks, he was made for this, doesn't know how it took everyone so long to see it. 

"This song isn't about losing what's important to you. I guess it kind of sounds like that, but it's more about changing. I wrote it for somebody. They're not here, but it's for them. Anybody that's made you get yourself more than you did before you knew them. That's, this is 'Years From Now.'"

Adam's eyes are maybe a little wet when Kris steps off the stage; it's the way he catches him, entire body jerking in surprise like a literal double-take, and Adam's torn between laughing and actually bursting into tears, settles for raising his eyebrows and opening his arms, taking a step forward and letting Kris meet him in the middle.

"Holy crap, Adam." Kris catches him so tightly it nearly knocks the wind out of him, makes him stagger backwards, taking Kris with him. "You dick, you didn't tell me you were gonna be here."

"It was a last-minute thing," Adam says, burying his face in Kris's shoulder and just breathing in. He smells like tour grit and exhaustion and so much like home it's scary. "I thought about hitting Little Rock," he mumbles into fabric, "but I chickened out. I can't believe you out there. How are you real?"

"M'not, I'm a robot." Kris laughs and Adam grins along with him, pulling back enough to look at his face. "What made you come out here?"

Adam brings a hand up to cup Kris's cheek. "You," he says, simply, because it's the biggest truth he can think of. "Can we--can I take you somewhere?"

Kris snorts, face flushing a little under Adam's palm. "Yeah, I just gotta...fan thing, you know, I don't like completely missing it." He looks apologetic, and Adam lets him go, slaps his hip fondly.

He knows at least a portion of the barricade crowd sees him when they step outside -- there's a flurry of activity and some muted, hushed whispering, but Adam keeps his glasses on and his beanie pulled low and stays pressed in the shadow against the side of the arena, back hot against cool concrete. He loves watching Kris like this, ducking his head with laughter at something someone says, crouching down to sign the shirt of a boy who can't be more than eight. He takes his time at the gates and when he comes back around Adam catches him by the waist -- what's left of the crowd, if they're looking, can see them, but it feels safe here, like they're testing the water before it slides over their heads.

"So when does your bus leave?"

"Not 'til tomorrow." Kris looks at him sideways, mouth turning up at the corners. "You got plans?" 

The fluorescent lighting of the underground loading area signals they're out of sight of anyone outside the venue; Adam takes the opportunity to cup Kris's face and kiss him. When they pull apart it takes a moment before Kris's eyes flutter back open again, and Adam smiles and plays with the fine hairs at his nape, runs his thumb over the delicate line of his tendons.

"I do. Come back to my hotel room with me?" "Yeah. God, yeah."

* 

The hotel room has turned back Egyptian cotton and wine in a bucket of ice resting on a marble counter. It's fancier than anything Adam ever got on tour, and it's an admission, in his own right, that this is a Big Deal. It's also completely fucking gaudy compared to how perfect Kris is, in front of him.

"I feel like I shoulda dressed up for this," says Kris with a warped smile, taking in the room.

"Fuck the room." Adam closes the distance between them easily, pulls Kris into another kiss that's searing-hot and convincing. "I miss you so much," he says in between breaths, "I was so stupid."

"You weren't--mmm." Kris pulls away with clear reluctance, hand coming up to brush Adam's face. "You weren't stupid. It was a real thing. And I thought about it, after you said it." He looks down at his feet, briefly, obviously trying to get his breathing under control, and when he comes back up again his expression is intense. "I told my parents."

Adam freezes. "What?"

"I keep telling you, I'm serious about this. You. Doing this."

Adam shakes his head. "You didn't have to, that isn't something you should have done for me--"

"--would you let me finish talking?" He sounds exasperated, but still affectionate, and Adam shuts his mouth. "I did it for me. I don't want to hide this. I wanted them to hear it from me before they saw me show up as your date somewhere, or out together or something." He shrugs, mouth forming into a little smile that's as much worn out as hopeful. Probably not the easiest thing Kris has done, Adam imagines, and it's so Kris, to go about it this way, that Adam can't help but touch him, reaches out and lets his thumb trace over the delicate line of his cheek bone.

"I can't believe you, sometimes," says Adam, feeling a little overwhelmed.

Kris chuckles. "It was the scariest thing I've ever done. I'm really glad I did it, though. I get what it means to you, and I've always... really looked up to that. How honest you are. I didn't want to be the guy that made you feel like somebody's secret." He huffs, reaches up and grabs Adam's hand where it's resting against his cheek. "I'm too lucky for that."

Adam looks down at their hands, eyes prickling. "Thank you." It doesn't even begin to cover it, and it's not entirely all of what Adam wants to say, but he's not really feeling words right now, and instead he pulls Kris in and kisses him, softly, catches his upper lip and hums when Kris's mouth closes over his bottom one. It's gentle, but it doesn't stay that way -- not when Kris bites down enough to make Adam groan, not when it's so easy to tilt Kris's head a little, get the angle right to deepen the kiss and take over. Adam sidesteps over to the bed and topples them both down onto it, mattress protesting the sudden weight with a disused squeak that makes Adam giggle.

It's Kris that pulls away first, getting his breath long enough to groan. "Fucking finally." "Kristopher!" Adam catches the hem of Kris's shirt. "Language."

"Fuck. It's sort of freeing, actually. Fuck fuck fuck."

They're both laughing now, and it makes getting Kris out of his clothes a little awkward -- there's some fumbling, and Adam manages to get his own shirt tangled up in his necklaces before he gives up and tosses the whole chain-mail-cloth mess over onto the floor. "God, I feel like it's my first time," Adam grins as he climbs back up Kris's body, pushing him down until he's lying against the pillows and then dropping to kiss his chest, lick down to his stomach until Kris is squirming beneath him. "Shhh, baby." 

The button on Kris's jeans slides free easy, and Adam gets the appeal of wearing them a good size too big because they come off without any trouble, aided by Kris's ticklish kick when Adam kisses his kneecap, runs light fingertips up the inside of his thigh. He doesn't touch his cock though, slides up the bed to kiss Kris's shoulder, and Kris's eyes flutter closed when Adam's denim-clad leg rubs against his dick. "Oh."

Adam licks his neck. "I haven't even gotten started with you."

"You haven't even gotten all your clothes off," says Kris, hand dragging down to tug at Adam's pants, "so maybe you're not the one who should be driving here." He rolls them both until Adam's on his back, Kris braced above him, and Adam grins so wide the corners of his mouth hurt as he arches his hips, skims out of the rest of his clothes fast so he can get his hands on Kris' hips.

"Hmmm." Adam slides his hands around to cup Kris's ass. "I want to fuck you. Can I?" "God." Kris rocks back into his palms, cock hard and red against his stomach. "Yeah."

Getting the lube out of the dresser is kind of a trick -- Adam bends himself sideways, snags a condom while he's at it, and when he straightens again Kris is staring at him, breathing hard like he's either seriously turned on or ready to freak out. Judging from his erection, Adam's guessing the former, but he still brings his hand back up to stroke Kris's hair, smiles gently and whispers hey until Kris says it back. "Condom," Adam says, stating the obvious, and Kris scrabbles backwards enough so that Adam can tear it open, roll it down onto his cock with well-practiced ease. He's intensely aware of Kris watching him, though, and when Kris scoots back up again it's to stare at the lube Adam's holding, apparently fascinated by the little clear bottle. 

"Can I?" Kris's blush is bright, and Adam is amused to see just how far down his chest it spreads. Cute. "I mean, I've tried doing it before, a couple times."

"You're full of surprises," Adam breathes, but he hands the lube over, watching Kris uncap it and slick his own fingers. "More's better. How far have you gotten?"

Kris is still red, but he holds Adam's gaze when he tells him, "not really that many," adds "two maybe," like it's a challenge.

Adam laughs, happily, settles back against the pillows and lets Kris recap the bottle. "I'm a little bigger than that," he says, and Kris raises his eyebrows and huffs in amusement, gaze falling down to Adam's hard cock. "Okay. Start slowly."

He has to admit: as much as he loves the participation part, there's something really wonderfully decadent about just leaning against the headboard, watching Kris finger himself. It's an incredible mix of enthusiasm and nerves: he adds one finger, then two, brows creasing in concentration like he's looking for something he's not sure how to get. "Good boy," Adam says, softly, petting the skin above his hipbone. "Easy, easy. Try moving a little, tilt your hips." Kris shifts, does as he's told, and the way his breath hitches tells Adam he's got it. "God. You're amazing, you know that?" Kris stares down at him, eyes glazed and mouth slack, and Adam's grip tightens against the urge to take over. "Can you do another?"

Kris nods, looks a little desperate, and Adam can feel him tense up when the third finger slips in, feel the way his body shivers like it's not sure, about this. "Take it slow," he urges, soothing his palm up and down Kris' side. "It took me so long, my first time. I was so scared." 

"M'not scared." He sounds determined, and Adam can't help but let his gaze fall, watch the line of thigh and curve of hip and the way he sinks down onto his own hand, lube dripping between them onto Adam's thighs. Kris is still half-hard, and Adam can't help but smile at that -- he's not scared, Adam believes that completely, but it's still a little scary, still big and nebulous and game- changing.

"I know," he says, finally, and he curls his body enough to pull Kris in to kiss him. "I know you're not, but it's still kind of important, you know?"

Kris chuckles, sounding strained. Adam can tell when his fingers slide free, the crease between his eyebrows that smooths as he scoots closer. "I appreciate you thinking about my gay virginity." 

"Oh, fuck you," Adam laughs, feeling his own nerves dissipate. Leans forward again to kiss Kris, soft and sweet, reach up to pet the back of his hair. "Okay," he says when they separate. "Okay." The lube is still on the bedspread beside them and Adam grabs it again, uncaps it and pours enough onto his hands that he's pretty sure they're going to have to pay for the sheets. Slicks his fingers liberally and slides his hand around to press inside Kris gently.

Kris arches his back, pushing into it. "M'ready, Adam--come on."

The third finger slides in easy alongside the first two. Adam's hands are bigger than Kris's; he's tight, but not unbearably, and Adam curls his fingers, opening him further. It makes Kris gasp and squirm in his lap -- Adam's name sounds like begging, now.

"You say when." Adam pulls his hand away, leaning back again. It's the best-worst part of this, and the first time with a new partner is always like new territory, figuring out limits and what the body does or doesn't, treading all new ground, part of the fun of it, if you're going for it. Adam's torn between wanting to savor this and wanting it over, already: he's imagining the fifth time, the five-hundredth, what it will be like when it's all just second skin, familiar and easy and tattooed on their bodies. It's not the first time he's looked at someone and thought forever, but it's the first time that 'forever' meant something greater than just a frozen, crystalline present. 

Kris pushes down onto him shaky, painfully slow, taking shallow panting breaths that sound loud in the suddenly sharp-quiet room. Adam moves to grip his thigh but Kris slaps his hand away, and Adam hums and watches him, squeezes his fingers into the comforter, instead.

"Holy," gasps Kris, when he's all the way down, swallowing hard and bringing shaky hands up to rest on Adam's shoulders. "Wow." He tilts his hips, experimentally, sending a shock of pleasure along all of Adam's nerve-endings. Staying still is very possibly the most difficult thing Adam has done, ever, and he grabs the back of Kris' neck, pulls him in for a kiss that's all the nowfuckyes he feels between them.

"Still okay?" Adam mouths it into Kris's cheek, wet and hot between kisses, and Kris nods, rolling his hips tentatively. It wrings a little noise out of both of them, and Kris does it again, more confident.

"Way okay." He lets Adam lift him up, set a steady, soft pace. It won't get Adam off, but they've got all night for that part. "Oh God." 

"Tell me if it's good for you," murmurs Adam, pushing his hips up enough to make Kris's eyes widen. "How does it feel?"

Kris shakes his head, rocking against Adam in something like a rhythm. "Don't you dare stop."

Adam laughs, stroking Kris's back. "You look so hot like this." He wraps a loose fist around Kris's cock and squeezes, watches his face to see if he can get him hard again: it probably still feels more foreign than good yet, but from the way Kris's eyes are glazing Adam can tell he's getting there, and it's incredible, watching him bite his lip shiny and jerk up into Adam's grip, push himself back onto Adam's cock like he can't decide what feeling he wants more of. "God, I love you so much," Adam whispers, and it feels good, being able to say it -- even more when Kris's eyes flutter shut and he moans, like it's the words getting him closer as much as anything Adam has done to him.

It's jerky, but Adam can tell Kris is nodding, and his own breath catches when he pushes out, "me too--love you," in between hitched breaths. Suddenly, gentle really isn't enough for Adam anymore, and he slides his hands down to grip Kris's hips, digging in with enough pressure that he's sure he'll leave bruises.

"I need--" Kris just nods, says yeah, tense and tight, and then Adam's lifting him up and off of him, turning them both until Kris is back against the mattress. "It's easier--do you want it on your stomach? It feels better." 

Kris shakes his head, dragging Adam in against him. "Wanna see you, just do it already."

Adam would be an idiot, to argue with that: he hauls Kris's leg up over his shoulder and guides himself back inside, a long, hot slide that has Kris tipping his head back and moaning, line of his neck perfect for Adam to worry his teeth against. 

It's a lot easier to control their movement, like this -- Adam shoves into Kris as fast as he can, the part of him that's worried about too much or hurting Kris pushed down by the little desperate noises Kris is making, the way his hands come up to grip Adam's ass as he thrusts into him harder. His thighs tremble and Adam grins and angles higher, thinks gotcha when Kris moans, gives a jerking kick against Adam's back. Every other thrust or so makes Kris arch against the bedsheets -- he's squirming, enthusiastic, and Adam catches his bottom lip and kisses him, messy, gets a hand down between them to wrap back around his cock.

"I want you to come--can you do that for me?" Kris hisses and bucks and Adam scrapes a blunt nail along the underside, twists his fist until Kris's head is thrashing against the pillow. "I want to feel it, make me feel it. Come on honey." 

And Adam can feel it, when Kris's orgasm hits him: Kris's eyes go shock-wide and his whole body clenches down, so tight around Adam he can barely drag his cock out, push back in and ride Kris through it. He keeps moving his fist, though, palm sliding up and down the shaft until Kris is oversensitive, making little pained sounds that Adam gets to kiss away. Hazy like this, Kris is cuddly and pliant; Adam can push his other leg up and fold him practically in half, hips moving so hard against Kris's that they'll both be sore tomorrow. His own orgasm starts in his spine and ends so blinding-hot he can feel it in his toes: he gasps and stills his hips and all but collapses on top of Kris, breathing in Kris's soap-sweat-clean scent and unable to form any coherent thought but for one. 

"Oh, holy shit," he mumbles, feeling lazy and wrung-out and kind of stupidly overwhelmed. Kris nods, eyes barely open. "Basically."

"You still with me?" Adam makes himself get up, roll off of Kris and strip off the condom, tosses it into the wastebasket with a wince. When he climbs back onto the bed Kris has already moved over to the dry side of it, propped up on his elbow. Adam curls up beside him, pressing a kiss into his neck. "Are you okay with this?"

Kris snorts. "I'm probably not going to be sitting down tomorrow but jeez, yes, stop that." He reaches up, pets sloppily at Adam's hair. "I hope you've never really met a guy who fell outta love that easy."

Love -- Adam mouths the word to himself soundlessly, shaking his head against a sudden wave of emotion. "I really am in love with you." It's easier to say it when he doesn't have to look at Kris, but it feels dishonest, too: Adam pulls back to meet his gaze, keeps going through the nervousness. "I think I have been for a while... even before, when you were still--" He hates saying this, feels badly for how true it is. Crushes are one thing, and Adam's never, ever had guilt over the things that get him off. But this feels more taboo, somehow, because it gives him away.

People don't fall in love unless they're paying attention, and Kris wasn't his to focus on that clearly. "I don't think I would have done anything. But I was. Am."

When Kris leans in to kiss him this time it feels warmer, slower, a bit possessive. He tilts his head to guide the kiss and Adam lets him, feels Kris' palm skate along his hip and sighs into it, eyes sliding closed. Pulling apart is like a change in barometric pressure.

"Mama knew," Kris says, after a while, face pressed into Adam's chest. "She says it was the music, that she can... can always see me, with it." Adam squeezes him tighter, murmurs encouragement. "Dad was--that was hard." He swallows. "But they love me. And you too."

"They weren't..." Adam isn't sure how to put it into words. There was so much fear, when he was younger, when he first realized, knew for certain.

"Mama cried. Dad, a little too, I think. But they weren't like that," says Kris, shaking his head. "I think they maybe thought I was stuck, after Katy--like I wasn't moving anymore." He pauses. "I told her. I didn't want her to think anything had happened when I was with her. It seemed wrong to not do that." Smiles ruefully. "She says I'd be a total dick if I let you go too."

Adam can't help himself, rubs his thumb over Kris' cheek and breathes in heavy, trying to process. "I think you should definitely listen to her. But I'm being selfish."

Kris lays back down against Adam's sternum. "Yeah. Me too."

*

Kris's tour ends in New York: and of course it would, Adam supposes, a sort of symmetry that takes him as far from Hollywood as he can possibly be. It's in the middle of the week, and it's tight on Adam's newly reemerged recording schedule, but he still meets Kris in time to catch the show in New Jersey, climbs onto the bus with him for the overnight drive to the Beacon. 

"There is really not enough room for this," laughs Adam, well after midnight, curling himself as close to the wall as he can and still feeling a bit like a canned sardine as he pulls Kris into the bunk beside him. "I think I imagined this being more romantic."

"It's kind of charming." Kris ends up sprawled half over Adam in his boxers and thin t-shirt, thigh slung over one of Adam's legs and warm hand winding up under his shirt, stroking lightly at the skin underneath. Adam can maybe see the appeal of this, though he'd still do a lot of potentially unsavory things for a full-sized bed. "Sorta like... you know you're not getting any, so you're doing this because you really do want to be close to the person you're with."

"Speak for yourself, I have definitely 'gotten any' on a bus before." It's different when the bus belongs to you and you alone though, and Adam definitely has no plans on reenacting that, tonight. Kris really does travel with his entire back-up band, and if there's one thing Adam learned from years in theater, it's that you should always respect the touring musicians. Respect, and not get lucky while they're probably less than three feet away. "This is nice though," he amends happily, curling Kris in closer. "I feel spoiled."

"Your version of spoiled is pretty easy to please." Kris's thumb rubs gentle lines up and down Adam's sternum, and Adam hums. This doesn't feel easy, but if Kris is going to think it, so much the better. "I'll keep that in mind, when this tour's all over."

It's not that far away, anymore. Twenty-four hours and Kris is a free man again; Adam purses his lips, blows a puff of air out between them. "So what happens, after this?"

"Huh?" Kris glances up, and his eyes go belatedly wide. "Oh. Man, I don't even know. I haven't-- even thought about it, is that weird? I don't even technically have a house right now, so I'm kinda..." He shakes his head, pressing his nose to Adam's chest. "I'm thinking LA for good, actually."

"Really?" For some reason, even through all of this, that was the last thing Adam expected. All of his thoughts of where they go after this, every vision of them together in days, weeks, months, has worked in the possibility of a long-distance type of thing -- because of course Kris would go back home, or New York, or maybe Chicago. Adam could see him in a thousand places, and he's never really imagined that one of them might be his home, too. "For real?"

Kris snorts. "Thanks for the enthusiasm."

"No!" Adam tugs on his arms, pulls him all the way up so that he's lying completely on top of him, now. "That's amazing, I would--I would die, seriously. I just didn't think you'd ever like it there, that it was kind of weird Hollywood and everything."

"It is pretty weird," agrees Kris, still smiling. "But turns out I kind of like that. And it's got this one pretty big thing going for it, too." He turns his face into Adam's neck, and his voice rumbles against his throat, pleasantly. "You're the closest thing to home I've got. I know we're really not at the buying dogs, picking out table patterns phase yet, but I'd maybe like to be, at some point."

Adam swallows against a sudden wave of emotion, squeezes Kris tighter. "I'd like that," he says quietly. "At some point."

There's a pause, and Kris speaks again, clearing his throat like he's feeling the same tightness there that Adam is, now. "I figure I can get a house or something, with a studio in it sort of like yours.

You know I've never actually lived by myself." He glances up. "It might be a disaster. I'm pretty excited."

"I'll teach you to cook." Adam can't cook to save his life. "Or maybe my mom will teach you to cook."

Kris laughs. "My mom keeps sending me recipes. And like, doubling them. I think she thinks you're losing weight too."

"Your mom is my trainer's nightmare."

"Whatever. I hate your trainer." Kris slides his other hand under Adam's shirt to join the first. "You're the prettiest person I've ever met."

"Flatterer. But I love you."

"Mmm." Kris presses a kiss to Adam's chest, palms flattening warm on his skin. "Me too," he says easily, and Adam smiles and lets himself sleep.

*

The buses roll into Beacon around one-thirty, New York time: there are already fans waiting outside, wearing plaid and holding signs that say they're here for Kris, definitely. It's fantastically crazy déjà vu and Adam peeks out the window and wonders aloud if somebody's going to ask Kris to sing "No Boundaries." Kris swats him and finishes buttoning up his over-shirt. "Shut up, dick." Adam laughs. 

It's the kind of thing Adam's first response is to stay out of the way for: those Idol pictures did show up on somebody's Facebook, somewhere, and more from Nashville, of Adam watching from the brick side of the enclosure, and it hasn't gone much past Popeater but it will, eventually. More importantly though, this is Kris's moment -- Adam isn't here to have any part in the spotlight, doesn't want anything about his being here, or why, to detract from the fact Kris deserves all of the praise he's getting. It's what keeps him curled up on Kris's bunk with a copy of "Midnight's Children," until Kris comes jogging back up the bus steps, slides back into the narrow back walkway and grabs Adam's arm, tugging insistently.

"Come on, it's the last day -- I want you out here with me." 

"It's not my show!" Adam sets the book down and climbs out anyway.

"That's kind of the point," says Kris, and Adam thinks, oh, and follows him outside.

Without his sunglasses, or makeup, in soft jeans and a hoodie a size too big to not be lounge-wear, Adam doesn't feel at all like a rock star. It's kind of freeing, actually, and he wiggles his fingers at the small crowd when he comes up behind Kris, slides his arm lazy around Kris's waist and squints at the unnecessary flashes when at least six cameras go off in near-tandem. Kradam, someone squeals, and Adam laughs and lets go of Kris, steals his sharpie when the first, tentative fan asks if she can have Adam's autograph, too. "Sure, hon." He grabs the copy of "Girls in Movies" she's holding and writes i love Kris! xoxo in block letters, signs his name directly under.

"That was so crazy," Adam laughs when a handler finally comes to escort them both away; Kris has to take care of sound check before OneRepublic can start, and Adam makes a point of watching, loves seeing Kris get so into it, even when the audience is no one but himself. "So was that coming out?" 

Kris snorts. "There's no room for anybody's closet for you. I just figure what happens happens, right? Better people figure it out this way than turn it into a game."

Adam nods, thoughtfully. "But if people ask?"

Kris reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing tight. "I fell in love with my best friend. Totally cliché. How about that."

*

The sold-out crowd is all Kris, tonight. 

Adam watches from behind the stage: he could have gone out between the barricades, he supposes, but the extra security seemed like such a waste of manpower, and anyway, he's too tall to be out there blocking people's view from the front row. Besides, he likes it better here -- he can see the audience the way Kris can see them, watch the people holding signs and those who know all of the words, even the ones to songs that haven't made singles. Kris plays some first-album favorites, a couple tracks off of Girls in Movies, and the audience screams when he plucks out the first chords to "Years From Now." Stops. Steps up to the mic.

"This song is about love, and I just figured that out recently. It's kind of cool, actually, because I thought it was about losing it. It showed me I guess. But I always say I wrote it for somebody, and I did, and they're here--he's here, wow. So. That's pretty big." Kris chuckles, and the audience screams, and Adam feels like the whole world has imploded, like everything's narrowed to this endless, pin-pricked moment. "That's my big gesture for the night," Kris finishes with a self- conscious laugh, like he has any reason to really worry with the crowd in front of him eating it up. "Sing along though, so I'm not the only person here that knows this."

Kris barely has time to step off of the stage before Adam is on top of him, wrapping him in a hug so complete that Adam's even got his leg slid around him, knee brushing the outside of Kris's thigh. "I can't believe you did that," Adam hisses into Kris's ear, and Kris laughs and pets his back, doesn't even try to get away.

"You asked what I'd say, man."

"I didn't think you'd do it that way!" Adam can't stop smiling though, presses his grin into Kris's neck and rocks them back and forth, swaying. He's got a rhythm to it, a song in his head, and he knows even before the lyrics come back to him that it's Kris's, their song, now.

"Meet and greet's gonna be totally crazy now, huh?"

Adam nods, laugh bubbling up from nowhere to spill over against Kris's skin. "God."

"Hey--I told you." Kris pushes him back, makes him look at him, sharply. "This is serious. Completely."

"I believed that even without you doing that." Adam means it, fiercely so.

"I know. But I wanted to do it. It was..." Kris's grin gets a little crooked. "Kinda fun." He looks so genuinely mischievous Adam can't help but kiss him, beam when Kris reaches up to circle his arms around Adam's neck, pulling him down and controlling the kiss.

"So you're coming with me now, right?" When they come back up for air Adam is breathing hard, flushed, and Kris looks mussed and still somehow impossibly adorable. "I'm gonna have a lot of questions, I'm guessing." 

Adam laughs again, nods and ducks his head down to rest again on Kris's shoulder. "Promise me," he says, and Kris says anything immediately, like it's not even questionable. "Promise I get to keep you?"

Kris tightens his grip on Adam, hands sliding across his back to pull him in close. "Always."


End file.
